Caden

Almost every Friday I start the day by driving to New Prague. I say almost every because 5:30 am seems too early sometimes.  I leave the house about 6:00 to make sure I can get to Patty’s Place by 6:30. Patty’s Place is one of those old-fashioned coffee shops where the goods displayed behind the glass are freshly baked on site, and the name of the person waiting on you is the same as the name on the door.

I’ve been meeting a group of guys there for a few years. The five of us have been getting together for fifteen or so years. Over time we’ve met at church, restaurants and other coffee shops, but I think we’re done moving around because Patty’s fits us.

Patty calls almost everyone by name and most of the patrons know each other.  The chairs, an eclectic mix, aren’t assigned, but people are generally drawn to the same table. In the middle, near an outlet, is a woman working on her third or fourth book. Sitting on a stool is a guy looking at the newspaper, hugging the wall is a small woman, not quite old enough to be my mother, but perhaps a favorite aunt. She admits to eavesdropping on our conversation because she finds them interesting.

Sometimes we sit in the front and sometimes in the back. Three of the guys live around New Prague, one comes from Prior Lake, and I live north of Jordan. We bring our Bibles, and sometimes even open them. Sometimes we pray, often we laugh and occasionally we argue about something or other. During the hour we are there people drift in and out picking up their medium half-this steamed-that, or flavor-of-the-day decaffeinated to go.

The principal from one of the elementary schools stops in and will often swing by our table to say “Good morning,” before leaving to guide teachers and children. Through the doors walk teachers, students, city workers, office girls (as my mother-in-law used to call them), and grandmothers with heavy hearts.

Last Friday three of us were there (two were out of town) when a woman approached our table. None of us seemed to know her, but apparently she had noticed us a time or two.

“I’ve seen you guys here before with your prayer group, and I have a prayer request for you,” she said with eyes full of tears not yet dropped.

We asked her if she wanted to sit down.

“No, I’ve got to get to work,” she said as she fiddled with her phone. “This is my grandson, Caden.” The picture on her phone was of a brand-new baby with some medical hardware accessorizing his sleeper. “He has undergone some surgery and now we are waiting for a heart-transplant. So, if you could pray for him and contact anyone else you know who could pray, I would appreciate it.

Her name was Paula.  We asked her if we could pray with her right now, right there at our table at Patty’s Place; late for work or not she stayed and prayed with us.

After she left the three of us talked about how brave she was to come up to a table of strange men and ask for help on a very personal matter. The other thing that struck us was that although we had never seen her before she had seen us and had taken note of our behavior.

I left Patty’s with mixed emotions. I felt sad for Paula and her family, but glad that our guy’s group was available for her, to pray with her, and to let others know of her need.

From now on I will start every Friday by driving to New Prague, because 5:30 am is never too early for some people.

How Many In Your Party?

When I look back and count my blessings, I must include some wonderful pets. There were two dogs – Max, a large German shepherd who feared nothing. Max understood English (and possibly German), and he communicated his wishes clearly to sheep, other dogs and more than one trespasser. Buddy, a Great Dane/black Labrador mix, employed a combination of body language and vocal inflections to express himself. This huge dog would often growl while he leaned into someone to let them know that he wanted to be petted.

Having lived out in the country for twenty-five years has given me the opportunity to have many animals: chickens, a cow, ducks, geese, goats, horses, pigeons, sheep, turkeys and dozens of cats.

Perhaps the cleverest of the cats I have kept company with was one from over thirty years ago. Before we were married, Rhonda gave me a kitten for my birthday. Mitsy was a tiny, calico that I immediately became attached to. I was living in an apartment in St. Cloud between my junior and senior year of college, where I taught Mitsy to retrieve.

I would place her behind a foot stool in the middle of the living room, and from the other side of the room I would toss a crumpled ball of paper over the stool. Soon, she began to leap up, grab the ball of paper and bring it back to me and then return to the other side of the stool. After a while, whenever I crumpled up some paper she would run behind the stool and wait for the toss.

That summer Rhonda was invited to her grandparent’s cabin; Rhonda brought me with her and I brought along Mitsy. It didn’t occur to me to ask for permission (I can only assume I was invited). The kitten was neither leashed nor caged and soon after we got there she ran and hid (the kitten, not Rhonda’s grandmother). We found her after several hours of searching – and what is most remarkable I was invited back again. But, I never brought that cat, or a dog into another person’s home (or cabin) again.

There are many people who do not hesitate to bring their dog to another person’s house. Never mind that the dog may shed, bite, growl, have fleas, do their business on the kitchen floor, or sit in the host’s favorite chair. Apparently it doesn’t matter because the guest considers them part of their family.

I have wondered how far that practice can be pushed. I personally know people whose pets include chickens.

“Welcome to our home. I see you brought a chicken with you, but I’ve got a roast in the oven.”

“No silly, Clucky is part of the family. Now if we’re lucky and quiet, she may even lay an egg on your sofa.”

It is incomprehensible to me that I would light a cigar while reclining at the table of my host (without first asking) or let out a large unrestrained burp (or worse). To do so would bring a sharp reprimand from my wife and perhaps a scornful scowl from others present. Yet, to bring a pet into someone else’s home without invitation or permission is thought, at least by those on either end of the leash, to be within the parameters of polite society.

The next time you walk into a fine dining establishment and the maitre d’ asks, “How many in your party?” Just for fun, ask them if your pet is to be included in the count.

A Moving Experience

Moving is a horrible experience – it can break your back. I have lived in my current house for over twenty years, and I am more convinced than ever that I want to live here another twenty plus. A few weeks ago I helped some friends move some of their stuff out of their house; they were moving to a different place. With my truck and trailer I made a trip from their old house to their new house to drop off some stuff, another trip to a rented storage space with some stuff they had no room for, and another trip to a guy’s house to drop off some stuff that was his or was about to be.

At least once a year we should help someone move their earthly possessions from one residence to another. This simple act of kindness should convince us that we have too many things, and/or that we should rarely voluntarily move from our current home.

The boxes and trips up and down the stairs never seem to end. You wonder how you ever accumulated so much junk; you vow to get rid of it as soon as you can find the matches and gasoline.

When I was helping my parents move from the house where they had raised their five kids to a new house across town, I made a decision to lighten the load: a couple boxes of twenty-year old Ladies’ Home Journal, Better Homes and Gardens and Good Housekeeping didn’t make it past the first unattended dumpster.

You get to know someone quite intimately when you move their possessions. Under what other circumstances would you be allowed to carry around a dresser drawer full of personal property and other unmentionables? Any other time you begin examining the contents of drawers in someone else’s bedroom you are asked to leave.  Almost nothing is off limits when you are helping someone move. In fact, you are encouraged to help yourself to anything you can comfortably carry.   

Sometimes the request for help can come as a surprise and with a little creativity it can be answered in a surprising fashion. A friend of mine was over at his in-laws for Christmas dinner with his wife and adult son. Sometime during the evening his mother-in-law asked if a piano and desk could be moved. Pleas of protest from his wife to her mother regarding dress pants, a freshly laundered shirt and a new sweater were not heeded. So, undaunted by the challenge, my friend and his son removed their Christmas clothes and moved the furniture in their underwear.

Sometime, during the move (I think it was while carrying the piano) my friend’s father-in-law asked him if he had a hernia.

“No, my belly just looks that way,” he replied.

I doubt he’ll be asked to help again during the holidays.

When given notice I usually plan my outfit for moving day: something loose and durable, with matching shoes. I also try and ready myself for the event because moving means change and change can be hard

When I moved my parents into the nursing home several years apart from each other, I noticed how most of their possessions stayed behind. When I moved my kids back and forth to college most of their belongings stayed home as well, but later when I moved them to their own homes they took most everything from their rooms. While my wife has found other uses for the kids’ bedrooms, behind closed doors they are quiet, cold and void of life. 

Moving is a horrible experience – it can break your heart.

A couple hours

A few weeks ago my grandson, Micah, and I were left in the house together – just the two of us. Some people call it baby-sitting, even if it’s your grandchild. I don’t agree, because just as I don’t think you can baby-sit your own children, I don’t think you can baby-sit your own grandchildren – because I certainly can’t.

I think if you are indeed baby-sitting you should be expected to complete a variety of tasks such as feeding the child, changing diapers, selecting an outfit with matching shoes, putting them to bed (or “putting them down,” as they say in the business).

I don’t really do any of those things well, so I would never be called upon to baby-sit Micah, but I can “keep him safe,” as my daughter says. Clearly, I have not given her reason to expect much more from me in this regard.

It was a Wednesday night and my wife and daughter help out at church with a program there. My son-in-law – the baby’s father (I remember when it was unnecessary to explain the relationship) was busy, and since I wasn’t doing anything other than reading and watching TV, I was appointed night watchman

Jennifer had driven from town out to the farm where she exchanged her son for her mother. Jennifer had put Micah “down,” in the crib for the evening (or so I thought). She placed the baby monitor (viewing screen and speaker) on the table next to my chair.

“He’ll fuss for a minute or two and then he should fall asleep,” she said with the greatest confidence. I was settled in my chair when they walked out the door.

From my chair I could comfortably watch two screens. The one across the room was quite a bit larger, in color, and had access to several dozen channels. The one on the table had a grainy black and white display of a child moving about his crib, and the sound quality was rather poor, but I could still tell it was a wide-awake baby.

I turned the sound up on the monitor and down on the TV. Soon Micah began to cry. Then he started to cry harder, so I sprang from my chair, moved quickly across two rooms and vaulted up the stairs, singing seasonal words of comfort and joy along the way.

When I walked into the room by the light of the hall, he was standing up and crying. I picked him up and rubbed his back for a few seconds and then placed him sitting down in the crib. As soon as I did he dropped his head to his chest and sobbed.

Micah cannot yet talk but I heard him say, “Why, Grandpa why? I thought you loved me. Please don’t leave me here.”

I apologized, picked him up and we went downstairs. He played on the floor while I tried to figure out what to do next. After a while we went back upstairs without a well formulated plan, but this time I stood him up next to the crib railing (thinking this was somehow better). The well practiced head droop and deep sob began immediately. Again I heard his pleas of despair and anguish. And again I apologized for being so insensitive and uncaring. After I wiped his tears, we went downstairs again to regroup. It had now been over an hour of keeping him safe.

Now the clock was beginning to pick up speed. I had one last chance, so for our third act I sat in the dark bedroom with him and rocked for a few minutes. When I sensed he was getting sleepy, I set him down in the crib and slid his knees out from under him so he would lie down. Then I turned and walked out of the semi-dark room. For whatever reason, this time he let me go.

Twenty minutes later his mother and grandmother walked in the door. I was very happy to see Micah and I were no longer alone.  

New Story

Every week about this time I sit down at my desk, look at the blank screen and ponder, but then I type out a word or two because the deadline for the newspaper submission looms on the horizon. Sometimes I think I know which direction the words will flow, other times I am surprised. Always I am limited by word count, as it relates to column inches, the English language, accepted rules of grammar and good taste. I do, however, have some freedom with subject and style.

Every year at this time, with some reluctance, I say good-bye to the current year and anticipate the arrival of the new one. I am sensitive to the passage of time, so when a year comes to a close it shakes me up a bit.

The coming year will bring anniversaries and changes. In less than a month my grandson will celebrate his first birthday, this spring I will mark thirty years in my current profession, and sometime during the year all of my friends and family members will become a year older (the good Lord willing). Faster and faster it goes, where it stops nobody knows.

But with a new year we get a clean calendar. We all like a second chance, a fresh start, and a new year offers that.  Throughout the year those chances of a new beginning come often.

When the problems of the day overshadow us, we are reminded that things will look better in the morning. Monday (or Sunday) marks the beginning of a new week; the first of every month marks time, while offering opportunity and hope. When we start over we naturally want to start at the beginning. We don’t usually start our diets, a new exercise regimen or a big new adventure on a Thursday (unless that Thursday falls on the first of January, the giant among days beginning new chapters).

A new year offers us the opportunity to create a new story, begin a new theme or start the revising process of the current one. We can’t go back and rewrite the past; we can’t actually disregard last year as if it never happened. We can only repair and build, but the future is wide open. Of course, there are some limitations. Instead of a word count, we are limited by our days. We get a year of Tuesdays and Saturdays, five in the mornings and three in the afternoons, and January and June.

Naturally, there will be some of the same characters (both major and minor) from the previous year, but don’t be surprised if a new character is written into your life. I suspect some of the previous plots and themes will continue, but now would be a good time to plan for a twist or turn to improve the story line.

It is said that every good story has a conflict and resolution. Although I have rarely shied away from a conflict, I can recommend minimizing them and seeking resolution early on, for unresolved problems are not buried at the grave. Unhappy days between friends and family members quickly become weeks and months and years. I suggest striving for the happy ending.

So as this dog-eared and worn year comes to an end, I start looking for ways to make next year even better. My desk sits in front of an east facing window, and once in a while between sentences, I will look out that window and imagine I can see tomorrow just beyond the horizon.