Author: Monica

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Not So Super Bowl

Like most of my fellow Americans, Dave and I decided to celebrate Super Bowl Sunday by inviting some friends over to watch the game.  I spent most of the afternoon chopping and mixing to get most of the dinner prep out-of-the-way prior to our friends’ arrival and by kick off time, I was fully organized, with a glass of red wine in hand, ready to be entertained.

Mind you, I am not now, nor ever have been anything close to a fan of professional football.  In fact, through the years you could say that I’ve moved from a complete abhorrence to a respectful tolerance of the NFL.  So for me, the attraction of the Super Bowl has always been the commercials and half-time show.  It seems that the best and worse talents Madison Avenue has to offer are presented in the breaks in play.  Some of my favorites over the years only played a couple of times and then disappeared.  Not surprisingly, one of my all time favorites is the EDS spot featuring the cowboys herding cats.  (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pk7yqlTMvp8)

This year, I saw most of the ads in advance on NBC’s Today Show.  I have to say, seeing the ads in advance really ruined that aspect of the event for me.  Not only was the element of surprise taken away, but in some cases, there was such an obvious attempt to stir the pot and create controversy over a couple of the commercials, that it practically sucked the fun right out of them.  The ad that I think was made way too much of was the VW ad featuring the tall white guy from Minnesota speaking in a Jamaican accent because he was happy.  There were some who asserted the ad was racist.  I think VW counteracted very well by putting the additional spot later in the game with an actual Jamaican.  At least he looked more the part – if you believe only black people live in Jamaica.  Now who’s being racist?  (According to the last census, 25% of Jamaicans are not black.)

As it turned out, my favorite commercial this year featured the boy and the baby Clydesdale.  It touched my heart.  I also especially liked the pistachio ad featuring Psy and a chorus line of nuts dancing Gangnam Style.  I don’t know why, but I love that catchy little song and the dance that does with it.  It makes me feel happy – sort of like Bobby McFarrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”.  Not only was it simple and up beat, but it fed right into the many parodies of the song on YouTube.  I enjoy someone who can laugh at themselves.

By the time we finished our delicious Shrimp and Grits, the first half was over.  The Ravens were leading (I was pulling for them since they are from the East Coast, I like purple and Michael Oher plays for them and I liked “The Blind Side”.)   After much ado and flourish, Beyoncé took the stage for the half time show.  Again, there was a great deal of conversation in the press regarding whether or not her singing of the National Anthem at the Obama inauguration last month was live or recorded.  A big “who cares” in my book.  It was her voice, it was lovely, enough said.  I’ve always like Beyoncé.  She has a wonderful voice and I enjoyed her in the last Austin Powers movie.

Her performance honestly surprised me and not in a good way.  The sound quality wasn’t good and  I could barely make out singing at all.  In fact, if I’d had my eyes shut, I’m not certain I’d have known there was music at all.  But, since my eyes were open, I had the sad misfortune of witnessing twenty minutes (give or take) of bumping and grinding.

I don’t consider myself a prude and maybe all prudes say that but I don’t find that entertaining.  After making a few comments about the jerking and gyrating, Dave remarked that the act wasn’t geared towards us; we weren’t the target audience.  Okay, then who was?  I read on Facebook that my nine-year-old grandson remarked to his mother that he thought the show was inappropriate.  So, I guess the target was somewhere between nine and fifty-seven.

This morning on Today,  the reporter covering the half-time show gushed with praise about Beyoncé’s performance and showed clips of interviews with women who saw it live who thought it was wonderful as well.  What am I missing?  Am I really that out of touch with American culture or are we all being told what to like by a network with ties to the entertainment industry engaging in self-promotion  of its interests under the guise of news reporting?

I think what I really missed was watching an episode of Downton Abbey to spend four hours watching a sport I don’t like, seeing commercials I’d already seen and witnessing a “musical” performance that I found tasteless and as Caleb so eloquently put it, inappropriate.

I don’t think I’ll feel the same about entertaining on Super Bowl Sunday next year.

 

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Hairs Gone By

The other day while I was visiting with my Mom via FaceTime  she paid me a compliment on my current haircut.  I’ve been letting my hair grow for the past year, in an attempt to grow a bob.  My former stylist, Wendy, used to say that whenever a woman has an identity crisis, she grows a bob.  I’m not certain that I’m going through a crisis, but I have changed my hair a lot through the years.

The resulting "pixie" cut.
The resulting “pixie” cut.

The first time I can remember being aware of my hair having a style was the day I decided to play beauty parlor in the back yard with a pair of safety scissors.  Iremember waltzing from tree to tree, drifting in my own world, chatting with my imaginary stylists as I cut random locks if hair from my head.  My poor mother was totally unaware of my snipping until she called me in for lunch and noticed the clumps of blonde hair on my shoulders.  At first she thought she’d be able to even it out herself but I’d done too good a job for that.  I was whisked to the beauty parlor and my one time little girl bob became a “pixie”.

I don’t remember the next time I went to a shop for a haircut.  Most of the time, my mother was my hairdresser.  She was very good with barber shears and could shape and feather hair.  It was always so exciting to get my hair cut.  Mom would sit me in the high chair (we had a high chair in our kitchen until I was twelve or thirteen) and wet my hair with a comb dipped in warm water.  Then, she would bend down in front of me, comb and snip, step back, examine, comb and snip some more.  Eventually she’d say, “You’re done” and I would run up to the bathroom to check out my new do in the mirror.  Many times my eyes would begin to tear up.  I would wonder why I wanted my hair cut in the first place and then walk back down to Mom in the kitchen.  She’d ask “Do you like it?”  I don’t remember what I said, but I hope I never made her feel bad.  As I look back at my childhood photos, my hair almost always looked nice.

Along with the variety of cuts, my fine blonde hair had its share of permanent waves.  Mom would sit me in the kitchen with a towel around my neck, carefully rolling my hair on the tiny perm rods which I would hand to her alternately with end papers.  Even though the whole process should only have taken a couple of hours, our kitchen was generally a three-ring circus, with the constant traffic of my younger brothers and sisters, cats, dogs and the occasional phone call interrupting my mother’s train of thought.  Luckily Mom was a professional ring master and eventually the perm was done.   Except for the smell of the chemicals, I loved getting a perm.  My hair is so soft that even rollers couldn’t form a curl that would hold without the help of Little Miss Toni.

Early days of hair setting.
Early days of hair setting.

I started sleeping in rollers very early on. By the time I was ten, I was rolling my own hair every night before bed and carefully wrapping the curlers with an old stocking around my head to keep them in place as I slept.  Mines weren’t the soft pink sponge rollers either, they were black brush rollers with bristles inside that stuck in your scalp to hold them in place.  I never really mastered the use of picks, so my rollers were clasped together with bobby pins.  I was pretty good at the rolling too, I didn’t even need a mirror. Despite any discomfort the rollers may have caused, in the morning I had a head full of bouncing blonde curls.

My quest for finding my hair history evolved into a much larger task than I had expected.  For years I’d been saying I was going to organize all the family pictures into one spot, collecting them from the various albums and boxes where they were stashed.  It took me two days but I finally finished late yesterday afternoon.  What I learned by looking at close to 2,500 photos was that for most of my life, my hair has been in a bob, and it looked good!  It wasn’t just a style I ran to out of

uncertainty, instead, it seems to be a style that suits me and is me.   So, I guess in my case, Wendy was right!  The difference is that when I go for a bob, I’m not entering an identity crisis but coming out of one.

Hair today.
Hair today.

For so much of my life, I’ve wanted my hair to look like someone else so I could look like someone else. I would want to look prettier, sexier, more provocative or alluring.   That’s why I would cry after a haircut; even though my hair had changed, from my forehead down, I was still me.  For too long, that just wasn’t good enough for me.  It may have taken me 57 years to figure it out, but thank God I have.  Looking back through all the years of my childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, early parenthood and on to the present, the hair may have changed, but the face is still me and I’m happy with that.

 

 

 

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Sunday Morning In the Sun

Yesterday morning as I stepped into the kitchen after returning from church, Izzie was there to greet me.  Izzie is our official welcome-home-greeter.  If she isn’t already at the door when we walk in, we usually hear a faraway thump from upstairs followed by the quick soft pat of her feet coming down the stairs and tinkling of her bell as she runs to see us.  Her motives are not pure, she definitely has her own agenda.  During daylight hours she generally wants to be let outside and other times she just wants a bite to eat.  Usually, like the good cat hosts we are; we give her what she wants.   Yesterday she wanted out.  I opened the door for her and as she cleared the threshold, the look she gave me made it clear that she wanted me to join her.

I don’t get outside much this time of year.  Walks to the mailbox and to and from the car in parking lots don’t really count as quality outside time.  The past few weeks it’s been wet and I haven’t felt all that great so I’ve been holed up in the house pretty much.  I was so hopeful last Thursday that we’d finally get some snow and was truly looking forward to going out to hear the quiet, smell the freshness and feel the cold on my cheeks but it wasn’t to be.  We didn’t get so much as a flake; just more rain.  Yesterday was a beautiful day.  The sky was clear and there was enough sunlight to warm my face.  Since I still had my coat on, I decided to join her in the backyard.

My initial intention was to just walk around the perimeter of the yard, to check out the gardens and then come back inside.  But it was such a glorious morning, warm and bright, I decided to grab my coffee and spend a bit more time outside.

red chairs 2

Last spring I created a little sitting area for myself up the hill out back.  My vision was that it would be my quiet place, just far enough away from the house to sit andread, think and pray.  I admit I haven’t used it as much as I thought I would.  For most of the summer and fall the mosquitos feasting on my legs made it too much of a challenge to spend time up there.  But yesterday, with the crisp winter air, I could sit bug free in the quiet and enjoy the beauty of the day.

Izzie led the way up the hill, clearly pleased that I was with her.  After situating me in my chair and giving me several head rubs against my legs, she walked off to one of her favorite hunting area to patiently wait for the rustling of a mouse or mole under the leaves.  It is amazing how she will sit motionless for long periods of time, waiting for a sign.  Her resolve is inspiring as she sits in expectation, refusing to be distracted from her mission.

Resized SkkyHow I would love to be like that; to stay focused on one thing at a time, to allow myself that luxury.  Yesterday morning, for a few brief minutes I was able to do just that.  Sitting in my warm red chair on the hill, I closed my eyes and let nature become my focus.  There were so many bird songs; titmice, cardinals and finches punctuated by the occasional call of a crow and strident tapping of a woodpecker.  The gentle breeze caused the dormant upper branches of the trees to gently sway and tap against each other with a soft woody sound.  In the distance I heard the muted noise of traffic on US 29.  All are the sounds of my backyard, grounded in nature but connected to the world.

Occasionally Izzie returned to me for a pet, reminding me that despite her focused attention to her task, she was nonetheless aware of my presence.  I gave her a good scratch on the neck to let her know that likewise, I was still with her.  Eventually my focus turned to the rumblings of my stomach and it was time to go inside.  As I came down from my hill, Izzie remained, still focused on her hunt.  I had already captured what I was looking for, a bit of time and quiet.

 

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Arming Myself With Hope

This morning as I sipped my coffee playing Letterpress with my sister Barb (a game we’re addicted to that we play on our I-Pads) a story on the Today show caught my attention.  The piece concerned self-defense classes in Texas; not the self-defense classes where folks are taught how to break away from an attacker, break a nose or give a good kick to the soft bits, but a pull out your gun and pull the trigger, potentially kill someone kind of self-defense.  It wasn’t the class itself that caught my attention, but the fact that many of the students were teachers, feeling the need to be ready for the next Sandy Hook or Columbine attack.  Compounding my shock was the fact that the governor of Texas has offered to pay for these classes for any school employee in the state who wishes to.

Granted, the political benefits of any governor making such an offer are bountiful.  I remember having a bet with a friend as to which group had a larger membership, the NEA or the NRA.  I can’t recall which one had more members but suffice it to say, both are major players in both elections and public policy.  I believe everyone has the right to defend themselves when attacked, but I have real problem with guns in schools.

This is a photo of my elementary school, St Aloysius Catholic School in Springville, NY. Saint Aloysius School It was a safe peaceful place where in the early 1960’s we were in fear only of an attack from TB, polio or the measles.  As children living in a farm community, there were guns in our homes – shot guns mostly, for hunting or killing a wood chuck.  There were also BB guns and no, I don’t think anyone shot their eye out.  I think the major difference between then and today is that guns were viewed as tools and not weapons – at least in my little town.

Fast forward fifty years and I am again living in a small town.  It is not unusual to hear a gunshot during the day.  I have always assumed it was varmint shooting, but now I’m not so sure.

A couple weeks ago, Dave and I stayed for a cup of coffee in the Hall after Mass and I made an off handed remark about placing armed guards in all of our schools; an idea I find repulsive. Why on earth would we want to have our children grow up believing they will only be safe is they are near someone carrying a gun?

I was surprised by the fact that the majority of the men in the group thought it was an excellent idea.  The box was opened and out jumped a very spirited discussion on gun ownership.  For the most part, it was the usual… guarantees by the Constitution….blah, blah, blah. (Not discounting the argument, but we’ve all heard it before.)  The surprising bit was when the topic of assault rifles came up, one of the guys said they were needed to protect citizens from a “tyrannical government”.

A  “tyrannical government”?  That statement chilled me to the bone.  What is really going on here?  Are there really people in this country who believe that believe we need to have assault weapons in our homes to protect ourselves from the government?  Why?

I understand there are people who are unhappy with our current administration and we are all rightly frustrated by the inertia of Congress.  Everyone who knows me knows how prickly I felt about the eight long years of the last Bush administration.  I felt the decisions made put our country on the wrong course for which we suffer now.  But, it never occurred to me to create an arsenal in my upstairs closet to protect myself.  Why?  Because I know my American History.

Our history as a nation is full of political unrest, upheaval and inertia on the part of Congress.  From the very beginning our country has produced men with differing views, presenting good arguments on both sides of issues. There have been hard fought debates, back room dealings and unfriendly persuasion.  Still, with all that, we have survived.  Our history hasn’t always been as idealic as my photo of St. Al’s and memories of my days on innocence but I would proudly stand it against the history of any other country in the world, confident that our tri-cameral system of government with its checks and balances works in spite of and because of our diversity and contention.

I have hope, both in God and in our country.  My outlook is not dark and dismal as some profess.  As for me I will continue to build my arsenal with hope and love.

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Happy 2013!

The Holidays are finally over!

Thanksgiving seems like a lifetime ago.  Since then I have baked a mountain of cookies (and consumed too many of them).  I’ve e-shopped, wrapped and opened many gifts and did surprising well this year in my choices.

I’ve opened my home to family and friends and been welcomed in other homes for some Christmas cheer.

I’ve decorated my home and helped decorate the church with live greens and glittering ribbons and delighted in the warm glow of candles and my gas fire.  (I love flicking that switch and having instant charm and warmth.)

I’ve written our annual Christmas letter and mailed almost a hundred cards.  I have received a fewer number but have delighted in them all just the same and hope that those I haven’t heard from are all well.

I’ve been to the movies three times!  This is remarkable since it’d probably been more than six months since I last went.  But, in the past year we have had a new theater open in town and Dave and I have begun to make dates on Sunday afternoons of a movie and light dinner.

I’ve traveled back in time to the Eighteenth Century, spending the waning days of 2012 in Colonial Williamsburg focusing on the unfairness of the Stamp Act while avoiding the modern day discussions of the looming “fiscal cliff”.

I guess I’ve been sort of busy, too busy it seems to have kept up with my writing.  But, I’m gearing up to pack up the holidays on the twelveth day of Christmas and return to ordinary time.

Until then, Happy New Year my friends!  May only the best come your way in this New Year!

 

 

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Lighten Up, It’s Christmas

Yesterday I was happy to wake up.  Although I’d never admit it publicly, for almost two years there has been a teeny bit of me shivering in a corner wondering if the Mayans were actually correct and the world was going to end on 12.21.12.

I know it was silly.  It’s just not logical to put so much faith in an ancient calendar that ended centuries after its civilization died out.  I’ve been kidding about it, saying that my calendar runs out every December 31st.; so I simply get a new one for the new year. Or maybe the Mayans just couldn’t find a larger stone.  Silly or not, given the number of doomsday prophecies in my own adult life, we humans do seem to be hardwired to look to “the end”.  Whether it’s an awareness of human failings that makes many believe the entire world must be made to suffer collectively; to be punished; I don’t know but the reality for most of us is that our world will end singularly and relatively quietly when we draw our last breath.

In my own faith tradition, these past four weeks we have been celebrating Advent, a time of preparation for the coming of Christ.  To many that means making ready for a little baby born in a stable.  For us, it is a time to remember that we, just like Mary, by virtue of our baptism, have been chosen to bare Christ into the world; not just in the nice easy places, but in the dirty smelly stables as well.  Our weekly scripture readings have a dark theme, to prepare ourselves, to stay vigilant, to “keep our lamps trimmed and burning” because we never know when the end will come; could be tomorrow or generations from now.  What is a soul to do?

Well, for me, now that I am confident the Mayan calendar held no other purpose to mankind than any of the many calendars I receive yearly from the National Wildlife Conservancy, the ASPCA, the local Chinese restaurant and my church, I will take that little bit of me that’s been shivering in the corner and gather the energy spent on this silliness and put it to good use.

I will stay vigilant and continue to prepare not by stashing away canned goods and fuel, but by sharing what I have with those who have less.  I will try my best to carry my lamp with the light of Christ to those who have bits of themselves shivering in corners, leading them out to the warmth.   It is a time to “lighten up”, to bring joy and light and most of all hope to this darkest time of year.

I was reminded of this when I came down to the kitchen this morning.  Andy had some friends over last night and my counter was cluttered with the remnants of entertaining.  I signed because I am so very weary of cleaning the kitchen and emptying the dishwasher after weeks of cookie baking and my own entertaining.  Then, I read my new cookie plate and let it all go.

 

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I Can’t Believe I Raked the Whole Yard!

Saturday morning while Dave was off practicing with the Greene County Singers, I decided to help him with his yard duties and rake the leaves in the back yard.  Shortened daylight hours and busy weekends have put him a little behind the curve in lawn care.  I, on the other hand, had a few hours to spare and welcomed a change from my household chores and longed to get out into the fresh air.  Raking seemed like a good idea – until I started raking.

The work didn’t seem as easy as it did when I was a kid.  The rake seemed heavier at first and my arms felt weaker.  I began to let negative thoughts enter my head.  Maybe I wouldn’t be able to complete the task.  Maybe all my hours in the gym hadn’t gotten me to the point where I could do it. Maybe I was to old.  I was beginning to become discouraged.

Then I remembered some important lessons I’ve learned at the gym. First I cleared all the negative thoughts from my mind: allowing myself to mentally break the task into bits.  Then I began to focus on my technique; finding the most comfortable and effective way to gather the leaves.  Sometimes I used quick short sweeps, sometimes longer and slower.  Before I knew it, half the yard was green again!

As I surveyed what I had accomplished, I saw Izzie rolling in a sunny spot in the grass, beckoning me to join her.  I thought, why not?  Lorenzo gives me rest periods throughout me workouts.  So, I laid down the rake and plopped myself on the cool lawn beside Izzie to rub her belly and scratch her chin.  It was a perfect moment; quiet and peaceful, the distractions of the holidays were gone.  Refreshed, I picked up my rake and tackled the next chunk of lawn.

My mind began to wonder freely as I worked.  I thought about Maggie and Jan’s engagement and how happy I am for them.  I thought about Andy and offered a little prayer that he be offered the post doc position he just interviewed for.  I thought about so many things.  Then I realized what a gift it was to be able to let my mind go like that.  No phones.  No TV.  No other voices.  Just me in my yard, methodically working and thinking.

Eventually, I realized I had finished.  The leaves were now gathered in a handful of large piles throughout the yard, ready to be hauled into the woods.  There was now a clear distinction between the lawn and the wooded section of the yard.  I had a glimpse of how God felt after he created the world and it was good.  Instead of feeling drained and ready to plop in a chair, I felt energized.  So, I picked up my rake and began to rake the front yard!

It occurred to me that my time with rake in hand was a reminder of how all jobs in life should be approached; with a positive attitude, good technique, determination as well as respites.  A job well done should be one that gives you the energy to carry on.  If it doesn’t, and your attitude, technique and dedication are all in rightness, then it is the job that is not right.

Rake on!

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In Humble Thanks

I didn’t want this Thanksgiving to pass without comment.  This year I feel especially blessed, or at least have had the time to recognize and note my blessings.

This year, as it turns out, I again was able to escape cooking the Thanksgiving dinner – something to be truly thankful for!  When I finally determined that no one was relying on my hospitality this year, I promptly invited myself to the Berryman’s and booked a room at the nearest motel.

So, first thing Thanksgiving morning, Dave and I loaded up the car with our bags and a couple of side dishes and a pie and headed east to Suffolk for dinner with family.

Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom From Want”

Naturally our family meal didn’t look like the Norman Rockwell painting with the crisp white table cloth and perfect bird.  And, thankfully, Nana and Poppa have managed to hang on to their youthful facades a bit better.  But the essentials of family celebration were all there; warm fellowship, kids bouncing in kinetic anticipation and more food than rightly should be assembled in one kitchen at any given time unless you are raising a barn in your yard.

Before sitting down to eat, we gathered in a large circle in the family room and joined hands in prayer.  Caleb offered a sincere and comprehensive prayer and asked for God’s blessing on us and our meal.  Then, in traditional fashion, the children’s plates were filled first and they were installed at the “kid’s table” in the kitchen followed by the adults who retreated to the dining room.

From the dining room, where the silence of serious eating had set in, the giggles and hoots from the kitchen were often heard, reminding me of the years I spent at the “kids tables” at my grandmothers’ homes.  In my teen years I resented my exile there, but last Thursday, I tried so had to put myself back in my full skirted cotton dress with the crinoline petticoat, white bobby socks and mary janes sitting at a wobbly card table with the companions of my youth; siblings, cousins,  as well as younger aunts and uncles all exiled from grown-up company. Even though it seemed like torture at time, with the boys’ rude noises, the whining of some little one who wanted their mommy or the occasional glass of milk that tumbled over onto a plate or lap, it was nonetheless, as much a part of the Thanksgiving ritual as turkey and pumpkin pie.

Yes, I have so much to be thankful for this year but first and foremost, I am thankful for my family; old and new, past and present.  Collectively they have given me more than I can even begin to express.  For this, I offer a concise prayer of thanksgiving.

 

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Engagement – The Ring and the Kiss

Last Saturday evening, while standing in the check-out line at the new Trader Joe’s, Dave and I were trying to mentally determine the most efficient path out of the new shopping center parking lot (which is one of the most poorly designed I’ve seen lately). I reached into my purse to check one of my navigation apps and noticed I’d missed a text message.

I moved the green puzzle piece down to the lock and opened a photo of a delicate hand sporting a shiny engagement ring. Under the photo were the word, “Surprise! Jan and I are engaged!”

The long awaited, highly anticipated ring!

We’d been waiting a long time to hear those words (or see them) and we couldn’t be happier. Jan is a good match for our Maggie. When she first brought him home, he seemed too good to be true. I pulled Maggie aside and asked, “Okay, what’s wrong with him?” It wasn’t that Jan showed any signs of obvious flaws, but because he seemed perfect; just the kind of guy you want your daughter to bring home. From the beginning, I hoped we could keep him, and now we can!

This Friday, on our way home from Thanksgiving festivities in Suffolk, we stopped in Richmond to get together with Jan’s family to celebrate our children’s engagement.

It has been clear for a while that Jan’s parents, Arved and Teresa, have been waiting for this moment in the same joyful anticipation as Dave and I.   Last Thanksgiving, when we were all together at our house, Teresa and I shared moments in quiet conspiracy washing dishes and comparing notes, looking for signs of any upcoming nuptuals.  We knew it was bound to happen, we just didn’t know when.  So, we have spent the last year with hopeful resignation of children waiting for Santa to finally pop down the chimney.

And now it has happened!  The ring has been given and accepted, the search for the perfect dress has begun and a date at the venue is about to be set.  Our dreams have come true and this chapter of the fairy tale is about to end.  And what better way to end it than with a kiss!

In the words of the immortal Ren and Stimpy, “Happy, Happy. Joy! Joy!”
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What I’ve Learned From Izzie About the Power of Persistent Prayer

I believe that God speaks to us in a variety of ways, connecting to us on an individual basis, tuning into our own personal frequencies.  Our challenge is to pay attention, to first tune into and then become part of the conversation.  When this this all comes together, epiphanies result.

Saturday morning as Dave and I lazily sipped our coffee and tentatively mapped out our day with “What do you want to do today?” and the dreaded response, “I don’t care, what did you want to do?”, Izzie sat at the back door crying.  She knew exactly what she wanted to do; she wanted to go outside.

Months ago, after Izzie’s emergency trip to the vet, we’d decided to keep her indoors for her own safety and our peace of mind.  At first she didn’t seem to mind so much, but over the past several weeks, Izzie has made it known that she has had a change of heart and wanted to rejoin the wild world of moles and mice in the back yard.  Long episodes of pleading by the door and several unsuccessful excape attempts have caused us to rethink our decision.

We considered Izzie’s current quality of life.  Yes, she’s safe, but she’s also become increasingly lazy and withdrawn.  Worst of all, she’s been very irritable, growling every time she even catches sight of Purrl.

We tried to ease the situation by allowing Izzie supervised playtime in the back yard.  We’d let her out while we were working on the gardens or just to sit in the sun.  That worked fine, and Izzie came in when she was called.  The problem was that she wanted to go out all the time.

So, after careful thought and consideration, weighing the quality of life issues against the safety issues, we decided to let Izzie be free to roam the yard unchaperoned during daylight hours.  For the past few days our arrangement is working.  Izzie still asks for our company when she goes out.  Sometimes we go and when we can’t, we peak out the door or window, to get a bead on her.  Even though we aren’t together, Dave and I are still looking after her, ready to help her in a time of need.

OK, so you may be wondering how a cat crying at the door has taught be about the power of persistent prayer. What was my epiphany?  Here goes;

God only wants what is best for us.  He loves us and cares for us, despite our best efforts to “run out the open door without supervision”.  When we make requests, God doesn’t always give us quick answers.  I see that like our consideration in letting Izzie roam free, God must consider the pros and cons of each request with a measure of just how much we yearn for our request.  The duration of the requests doesn’t necessarily translate into a positive response, but it certainly reminds God that we are still asking.

Like Izzie, I’d like to know that God is out there with me when I’m out in the world, and because God is God, I know that is the truth.  God doesn’t merely peak out the window to check on me.

Aside from The Prayer before supper and the occassional off the cuff conversation with God, regular thoughtful prayer hasn’t been a part of my daily life.  It is a goal that I continue to attempt to attain.  I think God just might have been tuning into me through Izzie’s pleas at the door, to remind me of the old acronym P.U.S.H. – Pray Until Something Happens.  Izzie asked and she received, she “knocked” and the door was opened to her.  I just need to follow her example.