Category: Daily Life

There were two other scary incidents that could have been life threatening to Sam. They were in addition to the times I personally threatened his life.

The first was the grill brush. It was an industrial strength brush hanging on a bar designed for grill accessories on the side of the grill. It was heavy plastic with a brush made of one-inch long, very stiff stainless steel. It was a sturdy sucker-I could have scraped the asphalt driveway clean down to the gravel beneath. The grill was sitting in a corner of the deck covered by a vinyl cover-out of sight, out of mind. Apparently, it wasn’t out of Sam’s mind.

We frequently left Sam and Meg outside in the backyard, safe within the confines of the Invisible Fence. They loved to lie on the deck in the sun. Like a child, we couldn’t leave Sam alone for long or he’d find something to do, and this time he thought he would clean the meat flavor off the grill brush. Maybe he thought he was helping, like doing the dishes.

I found what little was left of the plastic handle lying in the grass. There was no sign of the steel brush anywhere. I even got down on my hands and knees to look for pieces hidden in the grass, but I found nothing. He could have munched it anywhere and discarded it. He was never selective about dining ambiance.

I started to seriously worry about the metal pieces perforating his stomach or intestines trying to pass through his body, and a possible trip to the emergency clinic in the middle of the night. No sign of distress the following two days, but on the third, Ed was doing poop patrol before mowing and yelled, “Lin, come out here. You’ve got to see this!”

I walked up, looked where he was pointing and burst out laughing. There it was: a huge pooh that looked like an explosion of mangled Brillo, all spikey and metallic. It must have hurt a lot, like passing ground up tin cans. It was really something, and we laughed about it for days.

The next eating extravaganza was expensive. I used manure-based fertilizer for many of the flowering shrubs around the house. The ten pound bag was too heavy to lug around, so I filled a five gallon bucket about three-quarters full. As I worked my way around digging trenches around the drip lines and mixing the fertilizer into the soil, I had my back turned to the bucket sitting several feet behind me.

I heard Sam behind me somewhere, but I had my head in a Rhododendron, and wasn’t paying him any mind. I had no idea he was following and eating the fertilizer as I worked. Ed came out of the garage and caught him with his head in the bucket.

“Sam! Get out of there”! he yelled.

I turned and looked, and saw Sam’s entire snout covered with the fertilizer. Good grief. How long had he been sneaking the stuff, and what’s in it besides pooh? We knew Sam loved to eat deer and bunny poop, so this was probably a culinary convenience-just stuck his head in a bucket. No rooting in the grass required.

Ed grabbed the bag and started reading the ingredients. To be safe, I called the poison control center. I never had reason to call the doggy poison control center before, and wasn’t aware you were required to charge a rather large sum to a credit card before anyone would speak to you that knew anything about anything. They weren’t in it for philanthropic reasons.

First a tech, or someone like that, asked a lot of questions. I repeated the same answers to the same questions when the vet finally came on the line. At least I assumed he was a vet. He could have been a plumber for all I knew.

I gave Sam’s age, weight, rattled off the ingredients, but could not say exactly how much Sam had ingested. The doctor wanted to know how many cups.

“I wasn’t serving tea”, I snapped. “He was sneaking it when I wasn’t looking”!

After a somewhat frustrating conversation, it was suggested I take him to a vet. Ours was closed for the day, so we piled Sam into the van, and off we went to the Emergency Care Center.

The big goof was as happy as a clam to meet so many new friends. He greeted everyone in the waiting room, went from chair to chair, wagging and smiling, as if he wasn’t about to empty our bank account. He reminded me of a smarmy politician working a crowd. He did everything but kiss babies.

After explaining the situation at the front desk for a third time and filling out the required paperwork, Sam was whisked off to the back. Thankfully, no one asked, “how many cups”?

An hour later a doctor came out to tell us Sam was receiving IV fluids, and they may want to keep him all night to keep an eye on him. She said the high iron content in the fertilizer could damage the lining of his stomach. I almost laughed at that. His stomach was made of iron! She said to hang around for a while, and she would let us know. Cha-ching went the cash register in my head.

While we waited we could hear what sounded like Sam’s deep bark in the back. He didn’t sound ill. In fact, he sounded rather boisterous. It was his happy bark. The doctor came out to give us an update, and I asked her if that was Sam barking. She laughed, and said, “Yes. He’s barking at the cats in the cages. He’s a happy boy, isn’t he? Everybody loves him”. Yeah, everybody loves him.

Four and a half hours later, $522.00 poorer and with two prescriptions, we took Sam home. He had mild diarrhea for a couple of days, but was none the worse for wear. What a knothead.

I will say though, the Rhododendron’s looked splendid that year.

Respectfully…
Linda

 

[Sam and Friends, A Collection of Recollections of Life with a Knothead
With permission by Linda Kiernan July 2017]

I struggled this year. I struggled with what I needed to write. What would help someone along their way? …and I struggled. I even considered that the Lord had closed the door on my guest blog time, and yet here I am. I hope this meets you or someone you know along the road when you need it most. Thanks to AR for the invite again; it’s always such an honor.

I was walking with a fellow mom (who I will call P) along a beach path recently in Myrtle Beach. I am just getting to know her, as our sons played baseball together this year.

The husbands were taking a large group of the boys from the team to a local water park and most of the moms were spending the day on the beach. She looked at me like I had 3 heads when I said I was looking forward to a day of relaxing. She asked why I didn’t feel guilty for not going nor felt guilty for planning a day of relaxing at the beach.

I said, “No, I don’t feel guilty.”

I told her P we’re a better mom when we take time for ourselves, read a book, get a pedicure, sit on the beach or have lunch with a friend… doing these things all help us, not hurt us — in being a better mom. P told me she has a lot of guilt being a mom, and that her husband really feeds into the guilt. This conversation has been plaguing me for weeks and got me wondering how many moms feel this same way.

When I googled “mom guilt,” 493,000 pages came up! WOW! WOW! WOW!

I had no idea this was crippling so many moms. I then saw this quote from author Fay Weldon: “guilt to motherhood is like grapes to wine.”

Webster’s defines “mom guilt” as tendencies a mom has to berate herself and to be judged by others for our child rearing decisions. A poll by Glamour Magazine asked men and women how guilty they felt about working after having kids. I was dumbfounded by the results: 87% of women and 0% of men feel guilty.

Let’s go back to my earlier time I was sharing while at the beach…

A group of us were having fun, enjoying the waves, the sun… some were napping, some were chatting… it was a great day. Throughout the day P kept asking if anyone had heard from our spouses and sons… “Do you think they’re ok?… Should I be worried that I haven’t heard from them?” I reassured her several times that it would be more concerning if we had heard from them.

I could see the struggle inside her on her face. It was sad; she’s believed the mom guilt lie. It’s the lie that says good moms don’t need a break — good moms are fulfilled solely by the time with their kids; “good moms _____________ (fill in the blank).” Friends, it’s a lie.

Focus on the Family describes taking time for yourself in this way…

Imagine running your car on low gas; it’s always a gamble, right? If you run out then someone has to come rescue you, fill up your car, and that takes away from two people — where if you had just stopped and filled up, you could’ve kept going. We are just like that car. If we are running our emotional and/or physical tank on empty, we can’t be the best for our family. We run the risk of running on low gas and that’s when tempers flare, feelings get hurt and meltdowns happen. If we had stopped and taken an hour, an evening, a whole day or even a weekend, we could’ve kept going at our best.

I’ll promise you this: the longer we let our tank run empty, the longer it takes to refill. Small stops of refilling when we’re a little low is much easier than if we let ourselves run bone dry.

I think I’ve become the strange lady in the grocery. When a kid is screaming and the mom is trying to regain control or maybe she’s not and just letting the kid scream, I’ve begun offering encouraging words. Sometimes my words are well received — sometimes they’re not — but I’ll keep saying them.

Let me end by saying parenthood is hard, and we’re all in the same kind of boat whether we see it or not.

So be kind; sometimes the sea of parenthood is temporarily smooth and sometimes it’s rowdy and the water is sloshing into the boat. So offer a smile, say a kind word, load a busy mom’s groceries into her cart, be kind to each other, and mostly be kind to yourself.

Respectfully…
AW

 

[Photo by Dakota Corbin on Unsplash]

Change has never been an unfamiliar thing for me. In fact, 18 years and eight life-altering moves later, change is something I welcome into my life.

As a little bit of a background, my mother works for General Electric (GE) as a Human Resources manager. In the past we have gladly followed her across the country. It was no surprise when she came home and told us that she was wanted for a job in Cheltenham, England; we jumped on the chance to live overseas.

Following my high school graduation we packed up and left our house in Loveland, Ohio. My sister and dad were getting ready to start a new life, once again, this time “across the pond”. On the other hand, I was only staying for the summer before attending Penn State in the fall.

I’d like to think that with every move I learn something new and this move is no exception. Despite the fact that I have only been here for about a month, I have already noticed so many differences between America and the United Kingdom. Prior to immersing myself into this place I was under the impression that because we spoke the same language we would be the same; I was greatly mistaken. I have not only learned how difficult it is to assimilate to a culture completely different from my own — and that while this move is an amazing experience for me and my family — I am so blessed to be an American.

Before we left Loveland, I pictured this move like it was just another family vacation; like every day would be activity filled and all my Instagram followers would be jealous of my amazing summer. The truth is, after my mom and dad go to work, it is just my sister and I left to explore this fabulous new city we are in; we have covered just about every inch of it and slowly we are settling into our routines. However, even as we go about our daily lives the way we would at home, the world around us moves differently. Everyday I sit at the same table in the same bookstore cafe dressed the same as everyone else, but when I walk in, it feels as if I’m back in the high school cafeteria looking for a place to sit.

Living in Cheltenham is like living in the Hamptons of New York. Everyone there went to an expensive prep school and buys expensive clothes and drinks fancy coffee with their circle of friends they’ve known all their lives. A friend of mine that grew up in London and is now living here says that because she’s black she feels that people stare at her more here, where it is less common and for the first time in my life I knew exactly what she meant.

I never realized how proud I was of my beautiful country until I, so badly, wanted to celebrate the Fourth of July and here it was just a normal day. Whereas Americans wear their patriotism loud and proud, the Brits do not. They also don’t like when people look them directly in the eye or raise their voice. In America it is considered friendly to compliment strangers… I told a girl I liked her skirt and she looked completely shocked I was even speaking to her.

However, not all Brits are this reserved; in fact, one of the biggest things I learned upon interacting with them is that they are not all the same. Due to the fact that they were different from me, I wanted to put them all in one large category, but just like Americans, how they interact with you mostly depends on where they are from. Cheltenham feels more like a social circle that I am slowly trying to find a way into; it feels almost as if they don’t know how to talk to me rather than they don’t want to. On the other hand, people from Wales more willing to talk to anyone, and unlike the most Brits, they hug as a greeting. Generally speaking they are far more reserved than Americans, but each new one I interact with, I learn something new and I can’t wait to meet more.

As different and weird as it feels, this place is becoming our home. No, they don’t have any good Mexican food, but I think when I go to college (or “uni” as they call it here), I know my family will do well. The main reason we came here still stands; it is an amazing opportunity to see Europe. Already I have seen and experienced so many things. My goals and aspirations to travel have grown so much because of this move. I have also learned the importance of family and I am amazed at how much closer we have grown since this move.

I once had a teacher who, after telling her about how often I’ve moved, she asked where I called home. At the time I told her I didn’t know and she responded that it was sad I didn’t call any particular place home. But what I know now is that home is where you make a life for yourself and you have people that love and accept you no matter what. Overall, this move has taught me that I will always be an American (and proud of it), but if you surround yourself with people that love and care about you, then you have found home.

Respectfully…
HB

 

[Photo by Hugo Sousa on Unsplash]

Early in our relationship, my wife and I debated the proposition that people have the ability to change who they are — the attributes and characteristics that are most deeply ingrained in their being — personalities and orientations, so to speak. The way we respond to situations, the way we compose ourselves in different circumstances, the lifestyle choices we make that bring definition to our lives; all originate in the roots of our natural dispositions. Earthly wisdom tells us that we are who we are and we should learn to accept that, because once we do there is no greater freedom. And why? Enjoy this life, find total carnal happiness for yourself — live your life according to you. The notion of American distinctiveness has been culturally entrenched since Hoover, but because of an increased desire for uniqueness and personal happiness, this country has seen an unprecedented rise in individualism on the social landscape. People, now more than ever, not only believe that they wield total autonomy over their lives (as opposed to the sovereignty of a higher power), but they desire such control for others, which, in turn, has contributed to the development of a sweeping trend of increased tolerance of unorthodox lifestyles, behaviors, and viewpoints. This might lead us to assume that religious belief would see a gradual decline in society, but ironically, nine out if ten Americans still believe in God.

Though the self-esteem movement of the 1980’s gained some traction, there is an even more popular movement of self-love and acceptance that has swept American society in recent years, driven by one defining factor — we do not like to be judged. We believe that we are who we are and for others to criticize our ingrained attributes is offensive and hypocritical. And the influence is suffocating. Pop culture icons write songs about it; secular and Christian authors write books about it; and our favorite movies and shows formulate storylines that embrace it. Lady Gaga seemingly incorporates her beliefs in a universalist God in her chart-topper “Born This Way”; Joel Osteen reminds his readers of their unlimited potential in his best-selling The Power of I Am; and as arguably the most influential person on TV, Oprah promotes 10 day plans on “how self-acceptance can crack open your life.” While these examples might seem harmless to most, this constant stream of vanity stimulation has helped to create an over-developed sense of narcissism. We need to feel important, valued, accepted, affirmed. This movement teaches us that we are the priority; that we should put our own happiness and well-being first (the mission statement from the “self-love movement” website). Even the widely valued Five Love Languages takes one of our deepest human-based egotistical insecurities, the need for affirmation, and promotes it as an inherently endearing quality that should be not only accepted, but nurtured. This mindset naturally leads us away from religion because the onus is no longer on any deity to preserve us; we are responsible for ourselves. But, since 89% of Americans still believe that God exists (Gallup, 2016), there is clearly a philosophical conflict waging in us about how much control we have over our own lives. We want what we want, but in the back of our minds we are uncertain about the end. But, since the percentage of people who still believe that God exists is so surprisingly high, let’s assume, then, that there is a God and quickly indulge a putatively uncomfortable question: Does God accept us the way we are?

As this movement has gained steam, people have departed from the traditional, uncompromising legalism of the Christian religion (found in both the Old and New Testaments) that permeated much of American culture for centuries and flocked to the more groovy, “progressive” teachings of Jesus, who even modern secular scholars believe was a great moral philosopher. This forward-looking perspective focuses almost exclusively on God’s boundless love, while omitting the reminder that God is still capable of great wrath. But because of their increased levels of tolerance for unorthodox social behaviors that derive from “who people are,” the potential for wrath doesn’t make sense to millennial Christians. If there is a God, why would he have programmed someone in such a manner to innately defy his edicts? If we believe that we are were simply born a specific way — that God made us this way — there is nothing to change. We are who we are.

First of all, God wove an intricate web of elements together to make you who you are – and for a purpose. But, unless one believes strictly in moral relativism, Christians and non-Christians can agree that people do bad things, making them inherently imperfect. Let me be clear; this is not a piece on the concept of “original sin,” but if God is perfect and we are imperfect, and perfection is the absence of imperfection, then prior to a relationship with God, “the way you are” is separated from him. Logically, then, it is not possible for us to be in the presence of God while covered in our iniquities, so how could God accept us the way we are prior to entering into a relationship with him? Because of our innate imperfection, then, something has to change for us to engage in communion with God. This is not meant to be dismal or condemning; this is the reality of God’s holiness against our deficiencies.

The most significant flaw in the movement for limitless acceptance is that it equates tolerance with love. Why do we think that just because God loves us, he accepts lifestyles, actions, and decisions that are contrary to his teachings and nature? If God had simply established an underlying, universal acceptance of human beings, there would have been no need for Jesus, the man who even secularists invoke when justifying their choices to Christians. My wife loves me, but she would confidently affirm that there are things about me that need to change. Consider, for example, that, sometimes, I can be driven by pride. Scripture consistently and frequently speaks against pride. So, if I know that God would rather me not rest in my pride, why wouldn’t I strive for humility? Because he made me the way I am?

People like to think that since God created them, they must be perfect in his eyes —  otherwise, why would he have created them only to reject them because of something that is out of their control (personality, orientation, etc.)? In this confidence, we convince ourselves that we are fashioned with a natural righteousness that provides us with an ultimate, unconditional acceptance as long as we not only maintain, but even cultivate that outward righteousness toward others. But Jesus offers a different outlook on this and because 71% of Americans still believe the Bible to be a holy document and God-inspired, it would seem worth the look. In his parable of the Pharisee and tax collector, which was given specifically for people who think highly of their own righteousness while looking down on others, the Pharisee thanked God, through prayer, that he was not like “robbers, evildoers, and adulterers,” — sinners — and reminded God of his own righteousness in regularly fasting and tithing, which the Pharisee would have considered part of God’s law. The tax collector, meanwhile, stood further back, in shame, unable even to lift his head, because he knew that he was a sinner. Instead, his prayer was simple: “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Jesus told the people that the tax collector went home justified before the Lord because of his humility, prompting that “all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” To the world, this self-love movement is exactly what we need to help us achieve true happiness for ourselves. To God, we have made ourselves the idol.

Respected author N.T. Wright notes an important point in his biblical commentary regarding the half-truth that God simply accepts us the way we are: “will ‘God’s acceptance’ do as a complete grounding of Christian ethics? Emphatically not. Grace reaches where humans are and accepts them as they are, because anything less would result in nobody’s being saved… but grace is always transformative. God accepts us where we are, but God does not intend to leave us where we are…” If you are prepared to justify questionable actions, lifestyle decisions, or personality quirks based on the premise that because God is full of love, he unconditionally accepts you — guess again. Thankfully, we have pop icon Alessia Cara to remind us everyday on the radio: “you should know you’re beautiful just the way you are; and you don’t have to change a thing; the world could change its heart….”

We are not a God.

Respectfully…
Z

Seasons are good because they don’t last forever. With eternity being the only thing that lasts, wisdom is gleaned by maximizing the seasons… recognizing what’s present while it is there — not immobilized by pining for the past nor reaching only for the future. Seasons give life value.

I’ve been struck by the seasons shared in my current community, seasons that surpass our individual differences, differences we too often choose to use as a divisional source or force.

Together, we have experienced the tenures of presidents Bush, Clinton, Bush, Obama, and Trump.

Together, we have watched seven summer Olympics — in Barcelona, Atlanta, Sydney, and Athens… in Beijing, London, and most recently in Rio.

Together, we cried the day Diana died… maybe, also, for Michael or Pres. Reagan. At least then our heads were bowed, our voices softened, and our hearts were full of respect.

Together, still, on 9/11, we stared at the television in shock but no awe. That remains one thing seemingly still so huge to attempt to wrap our heads around.

But the experiences within these seasons shared have not always been so “big”…

Together, we have celebrated the birth of our children, their noted growth and accomplishments — ours, too — both personal and professional. We have huddled, too, in some heartbreaking moments of mourning. I will never forget, for example, our “Best Friends for a Day” post, where a series of planes, trains, and automobiles in the middle of a blizzard in the wake of my sister’s death on the eve of one of my son’s greatest successes led to a precious, shared experience. Again, it was together.

The beauty of shared experience is the “together.” The value is that it comes and goes in seasons.

Are you maximizing where you are while that you are there?

The moving vans soon come to pack up my stuff and haul it away. No worries; the Intramuralist will continue… just from a new home base. We are moving to a new community.

While there is excitement in all the newness that accompanies a move, this isn’t, obviously, totally easy. It’s hard, in fact, for we have maximized our seasons. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This thought keeps swirling in my head, such seemingly simple words…

“There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.”

“Where the Sidewalk Ends” is one of those iconic Shel Silverstein poems written to children but yet so poignantly also written to us. We often miss the joy that children inherently have; we let obstacles and other stuff get in the way. We thus miss the beauty of the seasons. Silverstein encourages us to go to the place that children know… stepping back, sensing the joy, seeing what our kids see.

What do they see?

Seasons.

And they see the value of sharing them together.

Respectfully…
AR

 

[Photo by Joseph Young on Unsplash]