The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com by the author, and can be viewed at: https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level4.php?id=58116
With all his black fur, it was hard to see what the problem was. Squinting, I leaned in closer. My son, Daniel, began to panic.
“What’s wrong with Batty?”
I couldn’t tell exactly, and I was concerned. Our otherwise gregarious, happy-go-lucky, black cat sat awkwardly on the bed, his demeanor guarded, his right eye bulging slightly from its socket and deviating sideways. Had something bitten him? Did he swallow something poisonous? I could feel the fear digging into me as my brain scrambled to make sense of it. Just then, as if on cue, the tiny cuckoo bird emerged from his wooden house and serenaded us at the ten o’clock hour.
I announced my intent to my husband, David.
“We need to take him to the emergency vet.”
He did not agree.
“We’ll take him first thing in the morning. I’m too tired to drive tonight. No. First thing tomorrow.”
I, too, was tired — and irascible. I countered his argument with all the reasons I could think of as to why we should drive 30 minutes to the nearest all-night animal clinic. When that failed to persuade him, I accused him of being unsympathetic — both to the cat and our son. I was bound and determined to get my way.
Stonewalled, he loaded Batty into the pet carrier and headed out to the car. Satisfied that I had won, I quickly slid my feet into the nearest pair of flip-flops, tossed my phone into my purse and followed him out to the car, our 10-year-old in tow. David loaded the heavy carrier into the backseat, shut the car door and started walking back to the house.
“You’re not coming with us?!”
I sounded incredulous, but I wasn’t. We were both dying on different hills now. My husband stood on the front porch, arms akimbo.
I put the car into reverse, sealing my decision. Batty let out a garbled protest faintly resembling his usual boisterous self. Concern flooded back into my heart at the sound of it, renewing my resolve. Batty isn’t just one of our cats, he’s our son’s favorite cat. I just couldn’t let anything happen to him. I was on a mission. I knew exactly where we needed to go. It was the same emergency vet we’d used before.
“Hold on, buddy. We’re gonna get you some help.”
The truth is, I was as concerned about Daniel as I was for Batty. My gentle autistic son sat in the passenger seat, head in his hands, his chest heaving with tears of worry that his cat would die. As we got closer to the offramp, I assured him we were almost there. We took our exit and relief began to rise within me. Making the final turn towards our destination, I slowed down, scanning the buildings on the right. There it was just ahead.
Relief had barely settled in when a feeling of dread spread through my body like black ink. The lights were out. They were closed! How could this be? They’re not supposed to be closed! Clearly, they are no longer a 24-hour pet hospital. Daniel looked at me, confused.
“It’s fine. Everything is fine, honey. Where’s my phone? We’ll find the closest vet and go there.”
I quickly searched “emergency vet” and got a nearby result. One tap on the navigation link and we were headed in the right direction, our first left straight ahead. I made the turn and looked back at my phone.
“You have got to be kidding me! My phone is…dead?!”
Dead as a doornail and no charger in the car. What was so logical less than an hour ago was now clear as mud. I felt alone, out of the protective care of my husband, no way to communicate, and, basically, lost. I knew I had made a mistake. Dogged, I drove around in search of the nameless vet of which I had no address, my exhausted child nodding off next to me, our pirate-eyed sick cat in the back, all to no avail. It was done. I was done. We returned home from our wild goose chase, having accomplished nothing -- but God had taught me much.
In my stubbornness I thought I could see clearly, but, really, I couldn’t see at all. David was right. I was wrong. And the cat? He is just fine.
“Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.” Col. 3:18 (ESV)
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Thursday, July 25, 2019
The Final Salute
The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com, First Place Advanced category winner, and Quarterly Challenge winner, and can be viewed at: https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level2-previous.php?id=57831
It was the coldest day in California in over a hundred years, numbing cold and wind-driven rain, buckets of it, coming down in a steady torrent over the Golden State. I can’t recall a single word that was spoken among us during the two-hour long drive to the cemetery that gray December morning. All I remember is the rain.
It was raining so hard, in fact, that the National Cemetery called the mortuary to confirm that we were coming. It was understandable. My father was to have a military funeral with full honors. I had never heard of postponing a funeral, but how I wish I could have postponed his passing. The heavy, unyielding rain was my voice, speaking to the world, not in words but in metaphor, declaring my grief. I would have resented the sun had it decided to shine that day.
We entered the iron gates of the cemetery, following behind the white hearse making its slow, ceremonious advance to the committal shelter where my father’s service would be performed. The expansive grounds of this sacred place spread out before us, around us, and then behind us as we traveled further and further away from the gate, a single path now branching out into a network of arteries revealing a sea of flush grave markers.
Our caravan continued on, up and over the gentle sloping hills of the memorial park. I did not expect to see him there, the lone soldier standing off in the distance ahead of our caravan. Stationed on a hill, he stood facing in the direction of the hearse carrying my father’s casket. The scene took my breath away. Stoic, he stood, his right hand held at his forehead in a firm salute. He was soaking wet from head to toe, unprotected by the relentless rain. His gaze locked resolutely on his subject, he pivoted on his heel quarter turn by quarter turn, following the path of the decorated World War II veteran deserving of his respect. I looked back at him as our car passed over the hill from where he stood, his presence electric, saying so much more than words ever could, bound by honor.
The Honor Guard stood at the ready as we gathered, only four in number, under the committal shelter.
The gentleman, who I supposed to be the senior person in the Honor Guard, an army veteran, expressed his condolences. The signal was given for the 3-gun salute. The first volley of rifle fire rang out into the frigid, misty air. Duty. Then the second. Honor. And the last. Country. I sat on the hard, cement bench, looking down at my hands, the gloves I had on of little warmth. The cold in my bones could not equal what was in my heart. Joining in with the even pounding of rainfall, the lonely yet comforting sound of “Taps” filled the air, punctuating the somber occasion.
The two-man Honor Guard removed the American flag that was draped over my father’s powder blue casket, folding it meticulously into a triangle, the three spent shell casings reverently tucked into the thirteenth and final fold. The man turned to face me, his charcoal-grey overcoat covered in beadlets of rain, his cap protected by a clear plastic bonnet. He, too, appeared unfazed by Mother Nature, motivated solely by a right sense of duty. With white-gloved hands, he presented me with my father’s flag on behalf of a grateful Nation.
The service over, I walked out into the misty cold. I picked up a red carnation that laid on the ground and held it as I watched them return my father’s casket to the hearse. This was the final goodbye that I was not prepared for. The caretaker, a tall, strong-looking man, turned around to face me as he closed the rear doors of the hearse. He didn’t say a word. He nodded once, a silent assurance. I turned and walked away.
And with that, the promises of Scripture assuaged my broken heart, a balm of Gilead: “Awake, you who sleep, arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.” Eph. 5:14 (NKJV)
It was the coldest day in California in over a hundred years, numbing cold and wind-driven rain, buckets of it, coming down in a steady torrent over the Golden State. I can’t recall a single word that was spoken among us during the two-hour long drive to the cemetery that gray December morning. All I remember is the rain.
It was raining so hard, in fact, that the National Cemetery called the mortuary to confirm that we were coming. It was understandable. My father was to have a military funeral with full honors. I had never heard of postponing a funeral, but how I wish I could have postponed his passing. The heavy, unyielding rain was my voice, speaking to the world, not in words but in metaphor, declaring my grief. I would have resented the sun had it decided to shine that day.
We entered the iron gates of the cemetery, following behind the white hearse making its slow, ceremonious advance to the committal shelter where my father’s service would be performed. The expansive grounds of this sacred place spread out before us, around us, and then behind us as we traveled further and further away from the gate, a single path now branching out into a network of arteries revealing a sea of flush grave markers.
Our caravan continued on, up and over the gentle sloping hills of the memorial park. I did not expect to see him there, the lone soldier standing off in the distance ahead of our caravan. Stationed on a hill, he stood facing in the direction of the hearse carrying my father’s casket. The scene took my breath away. Stoic, he stood, his right hand held at his forehead in a firm salute. He was soaking wet from head to toe, unprotected by the relentless rain. His gaze locked resolutely on his subject, he pivoted on his heel quarter turn by quarter turn, following the path of the decorated World War II veteran deserving of his respect. I looked back at him as our car passed over the hill from where he stood, his presence electric, saying so much more than words ever could, bound by honor.
The Honor Guard stood at the ready as we gathered, only four in number, under the committal shelter.
The gentleman, who I supposed to be the senior person in the Honor Guard, an army veteran, expressed his condolences. The signal was given for the 3-gun salute. The first volley of rifle fire rang out into the frigid, misty air. Duty. Then the second. Honor. And the last. Country. I sat on the hard, cement bench, looking down at my hands, the gloves I had on of little warmth. The cold in my bones could not equal what was in my heart. Joining in with the even pounding of rainfall, the lonely yet comforting sound of “Taps” filled the air, punctuating the somber occasion.
The two-man Honor Guard removed the American flag that was draped over my father’s powder blue casket, folding it meticulously into a triangle, the three spent shell casings reverently tucked into the thirteenth and final fold. The man turned to face me, his charcoal-grey overcoat covered in beadlets of rain, his cap protected by a clear plastic bonnet. He, too, appeared unfazed by Mother Nature, motivated solely by a right sense of duty. With white-gloved hands, he presented me with my father’s flag on behalf of a grateful Nation.
The service over, I walked out into the misty cold. I picked up a red carnation that laid on the ground and held it as I watched them return my father’s casket to the hearse. This was the final goodbye that I was not prepared for. The caretaker, a tall, strong-looking man, turned around to face me as he closed the rear doors of the hearse. He didn’t say a word. He nodded once, a silent assurance. I turned and walked away.
And with that, the promises of Scripture assuaged my broken heart, a balm of Gilead: “Awake, you who sleep, arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.” Eph. 5:14 (NKJV)
Trash Dance
The following article originally posted by the author at Faithwriters.comhttps://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level2-previous.php?id=57487
I often find myself walking behind my little boy. When he was small, he would let me hold his hand and we'd walk together. He’s ten now, and when we go places, he’s sure to be at least ten paces ahead of me, innocently detached physically and socially. So many things are different when your child has autism. I've grown accustomed to it, this arrangement of ours. God has taught me a lot through the simple act of walking behind Daniel and watching him from a distance.
This cool January morning, he walks ahead of me as we make our way to the school playground. No school today, so we have the whole place to ourselves. It's trash day and we've come here to watch the garbage trucks drive around the school. Daniel's passion for these rubbish-eating titans knows no bounds. Nothing else matters right now. Nothing.
Positioned at his favorite vantage point, he plants his feet firmly, ears attuned to the sound of the approaching truck. It's coming. His feet move faster across the grassy field, his steps quickening into short sprints moving toward the sound of the engine. He's running now. He is joyous.
The mint-green garbage truck pulls into view through the chain-link fence surrounding the school. Daniel's excitement reaches a fever pitch as he hotfoots it across the playground, wood chips scattering around his feet. He stops for a moment, rising up on his tiptoes, watching as the metal claw of the side-loader opens to receive the green bin. The arms of the claw close around it, hugging the bin tightly as it makes its journey up the carriage to the hopper, dumping its contents with a dramatic flip. This is his favorite part. This is what we’ve come for.
He turns back toward me, pivoting on his toes.
"Mommy! Look!"
I smile and nod, feeling his contagious joy.
He darts off in the direction of the departing truck, keeping its silhouette in his field of vision until it disappears around the corner. His trash dance is over. It’s time to go home. I lead the way as he lags behind, reluctant to leave.
As I walk, I pray, "Lord, thank you for this special child. This is a challenging walk You have us on, but You promise to go before us, and You do. May Daniel always follow after You, his feet firmly planted in faith, and Your Word the joy of his heart."
He’s ahead of me now, and I just smile.
Proverbs 4:26 (NASB)
"Watch the path of your feet and all your ways will be established."
I often find myself walking behind my little boy. When he was small, he would let me hold his hand and we'd walk together. He’s ten now, and when we go places, he’s sure to be at least ten paces ahead of me, innocently detached physically and socially. So many things are different when your child has autism. I've grown accustomed to it, this arrangement of ours. God has taught me a lot through the simple act of walking behind Daniel and watching him from a distance.
This cool January morning, he walks ahead of me as we make our way to the school playground. No school today, so we have the whole place to ourselves. It's trash day and we've come here to watch the garbage trucks drive around the school. Daniel's passion for these rubbish-eating titans knows no bounds. Nothing else matters right now. Nothing.
Positioned at his favorite vantage point, he plants his feet firmly, ears attuned to the sound of the approaching truck. It's coming. His feet move faster across the grassy field, his steps quickening into short sprints moving toward the sound of the engine. He's running now. He is joyous.
The mint-green garbage truck pulls into view through the chain-link fence surrounding the school. Daniel's excitement reaches a fever pitch as he hotfoots it across the playground, wood chips scattering around his feet. He stops for a moment, rising up on his tiptoes, watching as the metal claw of the side-loader opens to receive the green bin. The arms of the claw close around it, hugging the bin tightly as it makes its journey up the carriage to the hopper, dumping its contents with a dramatic flip. This is his favorite part. This is what we’ve come for.
He turns back toward me, pivoting on his toes.
"Mommy! Look!"
I smile and nod, feeling his contagious joy.
He darts off in the direction of the departing truck, keeping its silhouette in his field of vision until it disappears around the corner. His trash dance is over. It’s time to go home. I lead the way as he lags behind, reluctant to leave.
As I walk, I pray, "Lord, thank you for this special child. This is a challenging walk You have us on, but You promise to go before us, and You do. May Daniel always follow after You, his feet firmly planted in faith, and Your Word the joy of his heart."
He’s ahead of me now, and I just smile.
Proverbs 4:26 (NASB)
"Watch the path of your feet and all your ways will be established."
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