The Dishcloth Angel

I’ll never forget that day 13 years ago. I sat in a Burger King booth across from my son, staring out the window, feeling like an abject failure and steeling myself not to cry.

Not only was I a divorcee and single-mom who was fighting depression and barely making ends meet, but my son had a serious health concern that had required an appointment with a neurologist in the city. I’d taken him out of school in plenty of time, I thought, for the hour’s drive. I couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere close to the clinic, so we had to walk a few blocks. A big clock in the entryway said we had five minutes to spare. The receptionist checked us in, then a nurse took us in an exam room and administered a series of neurological tests. Then we waited nervously for the doctor. It was almost lunchtime, but I was too anxious to feel hungry.

He never came. Instead, the nurse came in, wringing her hands. “I’m so sorry, but the doctor says he won’t see your son because you were late for your appointment.”

“What? The appointment was for 11:30. We got here at 11:25,” I said.

“No, your appointment was for 11:20,” she said. "You'll have to reschedule."
 

Reschedule? The emergency room physician had mentioned “possible brain tumor”, we’d waited almost three weeks for this appointment, and now I had to reschedule? I decided that the neurologist’s heart couldn’t be much bigger than a box elder bug.

A good mother would have left a half-hour earlier, I kept thinking, as we drove to the nearest fast-food restaurant. I’m a terrible mom. I can’t do anything right. I couldn’t even taste my hamburger (not a cheeseburger—they cost too much).

I’d noticed the elderly woman wearing a Burger King uniform who was wiping down the tables. She had a very pronounced limp that looked quite painful. I’d wondered why someone her age and condition was working so hard.

But I soon slipped back into my funk of self-criticism. As I stared blindly at the junipers outside the window, the old woman limped up to us, wet dishcloth in hand. She leaned over the table so that her face was right in front of mine, stared intently into my eyes, and said, “God bless you and your son.” Then she hobbled away.

As I took a sip of my soda, I had this thought: She’s an angel. Right then I looked up, and there she was, looking at me with a twinkle in her eyes that told me she knew what I was thinking. Then she hobbled away again.

Maybe it was my imagination, but when I glanced out the window, the sun was shining much brighter than it had been seconds before! A tiny spark of hope began to shine in my darkness.

By the way, my son's symptoms never returned.

I know several people who’ve met angels. None of us has ever had a camera handy to record the encounter--nor would we have had the presence of mind to use it--but I suspect that angels don’t show up in photographs anyway.  Although I can’t give readers a picture of my dishcloth angel, I jump at the chance to show off our beautiful heifer, Angel, who has two angel wings on her nose and one over each eye.

 

 

“He picks up the poor from out of the dirt, rescues the wretched who've been thrown out with the trash, seats them among the honored guests, a place of honor among the brightest and best.” –PSALM 113:7-8

Don't Tell Hubby!

Hubby’s riding a football high. This weekend, his beloved Montana State Bobcats won a hard-fought battle against their archrivals, the Montana Grizzlies. More importantly, they tied two other teams for the Big Sky Championship and got a bye for the first round of FCS playoffs.

An alum of MSU, Hubby’s been a Bobcat fan for half a century, as are most of his relatives and friends. Since Wyoming has only one university, I find it hard to comprehend the depth of an in-state rivalry. I’m still amazed when I overhear a conversation like: My grandson’s got a terrible coach. He’s a Griz, you know. Incredibly, this statement is answered with a sympathetic nodding of the head!

 Cats don’t feel any more sympathy for the Griz when they lose than the Griz feel when the Cats lose. The victory’s too sweet, I guess. Maybe because I’ve only been a Bobcat for years, not decades; or because I knew that the Grizzlies’ season was over and many of their hard-working, talented players would never play football again; or because I’ve never played football (except one hilarious backyard game on my son’s birthday) but do know what it feels like to be embarrassed by my own mistakes or crushed by others’ hurtful words—don’t tell Hubby!—I feel a bit sorry for the Griz.

 



A Message from the high and towering God, who lives in Eternity, whose name is Holy: "I live in the high and holy places, but also with the low-spirited, the spirit-crushed, and what I do is put new spirit in them, get them up and on their feet again.”                 –ISAIAH 57:15

 

It's Time

The goaties are 18 months old and ready to become the dairy goats that they were bred to be. Before there can be milk and cheese, however, there must be a buck and, five months later, some baby kids! Since we don’t want to live with a stinky and (if you ask me) ugly buck all year, Meels and Blueberry will have to settle for a very quick and unromantic date. If these two are as fertile as goats are reputed to be, that’s all it will take.

I’ve put in a call to the Nigerian breeder that I bought the goaties from who has a buck or two that are unrelated. In the meantime, maybe I could enroll them on a goat-dating site. Maybe there’s a fruitful-flock.com, caprine-match.com, or goat-harmony.com. Of course, I’d post this photo taken when they were younger and thinner and had less facial hair!

Meels and Blueberry

 



“God's blessing on your children, the crops of your land, the young of your livestock, the calves of your herds, the lambs of your flocks."     DEUTERONOMY 28:4

More Than Welcome

We have some new neighbors! Two coveys of grey partridges (also known as Hungarian partridges, or, more commonly, Huns) have moved onto the place. We saw them all the time in Montana, but this is the first we’ve seen them since we moved here nearly six years ago. They’re quite cute--kind of like chubby little chickens. The Huns are awfully skittish and camera-shy, and thus far, haven’t allowed me to introduce myself. (Photo is from Google Images.) Huns aren’t migratory, so I hope they settle down here and stay a while! 

 

 

“Who are those who fear the LORD? He will show them the path they should choose. They will live in prosperity, and their children will inherit the Promised Land.” —PSALM 25:12-13

You Never Know

This might be the stupidest way in the world to waste five bucks, I thought to myself that day as I carried the potted tree into the store to pay for it. The tiny, scrawny, lopsided little blue spruce would have made Charlie Brown’s tree look like a Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Not only that, but it was the middle of summer—the very worst time of year to plant a tree—so I knew that I could be going to a lot of trouble for nothing. But I knew that the store was getting ready to clear out everything in its garden center, and I couldn’t bear to think of a live tree ending up in a dumpster, so I took it home.

Three-and-a-half years and lots of love later, the little spruce has grown rather shapely and beautiful. One of these days, we may be getting a phone call from Manhattan!

 

 

“He puts poor people on their feet again; he rekindles burned-out lives with fresh hope, restoring dignity and respect to their lives - a place in the sun!”                –1 SAMUEL 2:8

The Migrant

The waters north of us must be freezing over, as we’re suddenly seeing and hearing flock after flock of Canada geese in the sky and fields. I happened to glance up at a V of geese that flew right past me on my walk this morning. When I walk, I’m all business—have to keep my heart rate up, have lots to do when I get back. But this particular sight stopped me in my tracks: the vanguard of the flock wasn’t a Canada goose, but a snow goose!

The geese then flew in a figure-eight, eyeing the hayfield beside a little drain pond. The Canadas decided to stop and take a break here, but the snow goose was on a quest. He left his dark friends behind, headed due south, and rapidly disappeared into the light blue sky. I wonder what his story is, I thought. Lord, help him find his own kind.

I’ve always thought snow geese to be exquisitely beautiful in flight, and we hardly ever get to see them here, so this sighting was a double delight! I don’t have a bird-worthy camera or the skill to use one, so I’ve pasted a photo from Google Images and Cornell’s allaboutbirds.org. Their video of snow geese will give you chills!

 

 

“God's works are so great, worth a lifetime of study -- endless enjoyment!”  PSALM 111:2

 

 

A Bit Chilly

Hubby says that, in the absence of a thermometer, the best way to tell how cold it is outside is by the sound of the snow crunching and squeaking under one’s feet. The louder the scrunching noise, the further the mercury is below zero. I was just outdoors doing chores—feeding hay to the goats and horses, breaking the ice in the creek where the latter go to water—and although my ears were covered with three heavy layers, the scrunching was rather loud!

Bodie is something of a thermometer himself. Even though he’s mostly Border collie and blue heeler, both of which are heavy-coated, Bodie is one-eighth Catahoula, a southern breed which doesn’t need much hair. Bodie’s coat is Border-fluffy but Catahoula-sparse, so when it’s sub-zero, he’ll want back indoors before chores are over. This morning he only lasted a few minutes.

Frigid weather is particularly dangerous on our place. When the cat, Smokey, has been indoors too long, cabin fever triggers the arrival of one of his evil triplets, the dreaded Evil Moriarty. Hubby and I both have fresh claw and teeth marks on our person. Bodie would have had some too, had he not defended himself with growls, snarls, and gnashing teeth. Moriarty was ejected from the premises, which was his objective, but he returned after only a few seconds of minus 11°.

Hard to believe we were working in t-shirts (while the animals watched from the shade) just last week!

 Frozen rose hips!

 



“Warm me, your servant, with a smile….” –PSALM 31:16