Category: Grief

Activism, Belief, Choices, Courage, Faith, Grief, Hate Crimes, Hope, Quotes, Simplicity, Social Justice, Spirituality, Thoughts From the Porch, What Can I Do

“Live right”

gregoryjoel

The arctic front has made its way east and we’re slowly rebounding from last weekend’s ice storm. I still can’t get much done at the farm, so I’ve been working from home the last few days. I’ve been blessed to have quiet meditation time in the morning, unhurried by the usual morning rituals that precede a workday at the farm.

Given the atrocities happening in Minnesota and the constant cruelty and hate coming from our nation’s capital, I’ve found myself reading the Book of Isaiah this morning. The prophets remind me that religious nationalism, authoritarian regimes, corruption, and abusive power have always plagued societies long before us. History and the prophets tell me we’ve been through this before. They also remind me that there’s a proverbial light at the end of the tunnel – that evil doesn’t prevail. I must hang on to that. Otherwise, hopelessness rears its ugly head.

This morning, I found a gem in Isaiah 33.15 (in The Message Bible) that offers me hope for today.

“The answer’s simple:

                Live right,

                Speak the truth,

                despise exploitation,

                refuse bribes,

                reject violence,

                avoid evil amusements.

I also find hope in the people of Minneapolis who have braved sub-zero weather to “speak the truth, despise exploitation”, and look out for their neighbors in the face of terrible atrocities carried out by ICE and the current administration. They’ve refused bribes (“we’ll leave if you give us your voter rolls” -another ploy to fix the next election). They’ve rejected violence, answering violence with peaceful protest. Unlike the ICE agents who celebrated the lynching of Alex Pretti (watch the video) or the constant laughing at another’s pain, they’ve rejected such evil amusements.

I needed the reminder today that no matter how I feel (does “really pissed off”, hurt and grieving resonate with you?), I can heed Isaiah’s words. There is hope. Jesus even made clearer by reminding me that loving God and loving others takes care of everything else. It enables me to “speak the truth, despise exploitation, refuse bribes, reject violence, avoid evil amusements” too…

Animal Shelters, Connection, Courage, Dogs, Events, Faith, Gratitude, Grief, Horses, Identification, Love, Pets, Prayer, Quotes, Relationships, Spirituality, Stories, Thoughts From the Porch, Writing

Dogs, Horses, and Maddie

gregoryjoel

I went to the farm Sunday afternoon to water the newly seeded beds. It may have rained a lot of last week, but new seedlings require consistent water to germinate well. Besides, I like Sunday afternoons. I enjoy the solitude of the day. It’s quiet except for the occasional bicyclists whizzing down the Trinity Trail, encouraging each other as they ride past.

I noticed a grey compact car parked toward the back of the empty lot in front of our barn. It’s not unusual for people to park in the vacant lot and walk down to fish or walk the trails so I paid it no mind. I drove down to dump compost before returning to open the barn and getting the generator out. As I unlocked the barn, I caught a glimpse of an older man sitting in the grass next to the tree in the vacant lot. He grabbed my attention because he didn’t look like most of the folks going fishing or the homeless people that frequent this part of Sylvania Street and the Trinity Trail. He was dressed in a sport shirt and jeans, his hair neatly combed, and gave off a fatherly aura, if there is such a thing.

It was then I noticed who he was talking to. It was a beautiful black and brown German Shepherd. I looked back at the barn door quickly as if my eyes had intruded on a very important and precious moment. I don’t know anything about that man or his dog, but I do know about something about men and their dogs (no offense to my wife or all the other female dog lovers). There was something deeply personal and tender about what I had seen. There was a sense of sadness in the picture. It was as if he were saying goodbye to an old friend. Could it be that he was spending his last day with his faithful friend? I have no reason to know this was the case except for the feeling in my gut. A tear blurred my vision as I opened the door and stepped into the barn.

I hurriedly loaded my truck with the generator and some tools and left as quietly and as quickly as I could. I went about my chores but couldn’t shake the image I had just witnessed.

I’ve always had a special relationship with all the dogs who have graced my life. I’m convinced that the world needs more dogs (and horses but that’s another story…) and less people. It’s no surprise to me that dog is simply “god” spelled backwards. They share the unconditional love quality of the Creator. I needed to be around such unconditional love more than ever. That’s when Maddie, and a couple of months later Missy, came to live with me.

Maddie was half Dachshund and half German Shepherd. I’m not sure which one was the father, but I’m convinced it was not the Dachshund. I can’t figure how that would’ve worked if it was. She looked like a Dachshund with a semi-German Shepherd head. My first thought was that she was so ugly she was cute. That changed soon enough.

 Maddie was eleven years old when she came into my life. Her owner had lived at Samaritan House, a transitional housing place for homeless folks with HIV/AIDS, and been the caretaker for the house dog, Maddie. The two became inseparable. When her owner moved into her own place Maddie went with her. Unfortunately, her owner passed the same year I found myself at Samaritan House and getting clean from too many years of addiction.

Her owner’s sister brought Maddie back to Samaritan House because the only other alternative for her was the shelter. I volunteered to keep her, and we bonded immediately. She became my dog.

Three months later Missy came into our home. I was doing some landscape work for a friend. She had two dogs: one a Boston Terrier and the other a Sheltie named Missy. She had taken Missy in from a breeder and then discovered she was incredibly allergic to Missy’s long hair. She asked if I would like to take her. I said yes without hesitation even though I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to have her in my little apartment. Moreover, I wasn’t sure how it would work with Maddie. I’d figure it out. When my friend said her good-byes to Missy, I opened my truck door and Missy jumped in. She never looked back.

I finally moved from Samaritan House to my very own place. It didn’t have a fence, but I didn’t have to worry about the dogs. Missy kept Maddie safe and would always herd Maddie back to the house when she wandered off. She got along well with Maddie, but Maddie made sure everyone knew she was the alpha in our little pack. Maddie would stand at the food bowls, while Missy waited patiently for Maddie to finish eating. Maddie would empty her bowl, walk over to Missy’s bowl, and lick the top and sides of the food bowl just to show she could.  She wouldn’t eat any mind you, but she made it quite clear who was in charge. When bedtime came Maddie slept by my head and Missy slept at my feet.

Maddie was eleven years old when she came to live with me. I knew when I took her in that I may not have her long. Despite the tendency of Dachshunds and Shepherds to have hip and back issues as they age, Maddie never had those problems.  She may have slowed a bit, but she was full of energy, bringing joy and love to my home.

\When I moved in with my “adopted brother” Craig a couple of years later, she wormed her way into his heart. The dogs who would “have to stay outside” still slept with me and often took on the role of service dog to Craig. He had severe diabetes and both Missy and Maddie warned me when his blood sugar dropped too low. He often told me how special they were to him.

It was 2011 and the morning was unusually hot and humid for the early Spring. I began my morning ritual of letting the dogs outside and making the morning coffee. Missy bound out the back door, but Maddie stayed in her bed. She had given up sleeping with me a few weeks earlier. She could no longer jump up on the bed and preferred her little mattress on the floor next to me. She had been sleeping more than usual, but at the ripe old age of sixteen she was entitled to take her time waking up.

I finished my morning ritual and headed off to work. Missy was at the door when I returned. She was running back and forth to my bedroom, baking for me to follow. Maddie was still in her bed. I reached down to love on her when I noticed she had messed on herself. I gently picked her up, cleaned her off, and placed her on the bed next to me. Missy sat at attention with a concerned look on her face. Maddie hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and now she even refused the dog treat I offered her. I knew it was her time. I began to sob uncontrollably, hugging my sweet Maddie as she laid her head in my lap.

I agonized over the decision I knew I had to make. Maybe she had caught a bug, or it was something she ate and she’ll be better in the morning. I knew it was simply wishful thinking. She had lived a long full life, loving those of us who God put in her path – at Samaritan House, with her caretaker, and with me. She was a rescue dog who really the rescuer. I had been given time with her I never expected and now couldn’t think of life without Maddie. Even Missy could sense that the end was near and come over to love on Maddie and I.

I didn’t sleep much that night. I checked on Maddie frequently through the night to make sure she was comfortable. When morning came, I told Craig what I had to do. He sat down with me in our morning coffee spot – his garage wood shop – and asked if he could pray for us. We prayed together; both choking back the tears. He shared my pain and knew he couldn’t fix the problem. He could be there for me. I’ve been blessed by the people God has put in my life as well. That point isn’t lost on me.

I got showered and dressed slowly. Every moment felt like a weight keeping me down and struggling to just “be”. I wrapped a blanket around Maddie and gently picked her up. Missy followed us to the truck and stopped short. She knew that it would only be Maddie and I leaving today. I think she knew that only I would be returning.

I drove to the Humane Society shelter – the same one Maddie had come from all those years ago – and explained our situation to the receptionist. I couldn’t afford a veterinarian, but I couldn’t let Maddie suffer any longer. She was so kind and said to simply donate what I could at another time. She called the veterinary tech while I left to bring Maddie from the truck.

We went to a private room behind the office. There the tech explained to me what he was going to be doing, that Maddie would simply go to sleep, and asked if I wanted to stay with Maddie. There was no question. I had to be there to love her until the end. He then brought out the syringe and administered the shot. “It might take a few minutes”, he said, “because her metabolism has slowed so much.” I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. I didn’t want to leave Maddie, but I felt myself breaking down. Maddie’s breath began to slow. She looked at me one last time as I held her.

Maddie took her last breath and died in my arms. The tech said to take as much time as I needed. The receptionist brought me a note, thanking Maddie for her years of service to the HIV community and with it a note about the Rainbow Bridge:

“Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….”

Author unknown…

I don’t know if the man I saw was going through these same feelings or the same situation. What I do know is that whatever he was going through his faithful companion would be there until the end. That’s what dogs do.

One of my favorite author, Brennan Manning, tells a story of watching a dog being dumped on the side of the road. As the car sped off, the dog ran down the road chasing the car, pursuing his owner with all his might even though he was rejected and abandoned. God is like that with us. Regardless of how much we have rejected and abandoned Him he pursues us with His unwavering love and forgiveness, wanting to be with us every no matter what.

I guess that’s why Dog is God spelled backwards…

Children, Choices, Consequences, Emotional Health, Family, Generations, Grandchildren, Grief, Recovery, Relationships, Storytelling, Thoughts From the Porch, What Can I Do, Writing

The Way It Was…

gregoryjoel

It’s hard to believe September is already here. Labor Day is the unofficial beginning of Fall so the temperatures here have dropped to the nineties instead of the triple digits and we might even celebrate Labor Day with some rain. I’m hoping but it is Texas after all…

I haven’t written much lately. The heat and oppressive humidity dulled the thinking, and work has taken all the energy I may have. Getting out of sweat-soaked clothes and laying in front of the air conditioning has been norm the last month or so. It’s also the end of our fiscal year at work so evenings are filled with year-end reports and audits. It’s rare to stay awake through the ten pm weather report but that’s okay. The forecast doesn’t change in August. It’s just going to be hot and dry.

My youngest grandkids started school in the middle of last month. Things have changed since I was young. The school year started the day after Labor Day and ended the day before Memorial Day. We didn’t have Monday holidays, so we celebrated them on whatever day of the week they fell on. It seems a bit cruel to send kids back to school while the swimming pools are still open, but I digress…

I have had the privilege of picking my grandkids up from school for a couple of years now. My oldest, Baillie, is working in Alaska, but both of the others are in high school, although they attend different schools. Lucas is close enough to walk to and from Pascal High School where he’s a freshman this year. I get to pick him up on the days he stays late.

Izabella was accepted into the Visual Performing Arts program at I.M. Terrell Academy, which is only two minutes away from the farm. I.M. Terrell was the black high school for many years in Fort Worth when schools were still segregated. Moreover, it’s Ms. Opal Lee’s alma mater. She’s thrilled that Iza is there. It hasn’t hurt Iza that her grandfather works for Terrell’s most famous alumnus.

I’m reminded daily how much I love my grandkids and how much I miss their father. He would (and I’m sure that on another plane he is) be so proud of them. I hope he would be proud of me as well for being there for them. I often wasn’t there for him when he was that age. Addiction has stolen so much from us. It stole both my son’s father and my grandkid’s father. The only difference is that I get the opportunity to make living amends. Jeremy, my son, lost that opportunity on May 29th, 2020.

It’s been four years since he passed. His car still sits in my driveway: another daily reminder that I keep meaning to get to someone else, but still find hard to let go of. Grief has its own timeline. While the daily intensity of the emotion has lessened to a point, there are still days when I retreat by myself to the end of the farm to have a good cry. I don’t feel as overwhelmed as I did in the months after his death, but I still grieve. I know grief’s a process and I’m told by others that have lost children that it doesn’t ever go away. It simply changes.

I have a fellow blogger friend, Mitch, who shares his real memoirs from time to time. I enjoy reading them. I’ve often thought I should share my own stories in some way. Jeremy once told me that he and I should write a book. “Dad, no one would believe that crazy shit”, he’d tell me. Life was certainly not dull, at least outwardly. As my own addiction progressed, life became an extremely dull routine of using, finding ways and means to get more, and repeating the process over and over with greater consequences and self-hatred.

Jeremy and I found a way out and shared that path for several years until he ventured down his own path that included relapsing into active addiction. I stayed on the recovery pathway and prayed that Jeremy would join me once again. He did from time to time but couldn’t seem to stay. I miss him terribly.

I thought that maybe I too, should share some stories – crazy as they may be – in hopes that someone relates and maybe, just maybe, it can make a difference in their journey as I’m sure it will in mine. I still don’t know what to call them. It would be inappropriate to call them my “real memoir” – don’t want to step on anyone’s toes – but they are real and definitely a time of remembering. Maybe writing will ease the grief and make some sense out of the craziness.

Look for them from time to time and pray to keep me honest. One of my favorite lines from a recovery book I read frequently is that “Honesty is the antidote to our diseased thinking”.

Maybe the stories will reflect that…

Children, Choices, Consequences, Emotional Health, Family, Generations, Grandchildren, Grief, Recovery, Relationships, Storytelling, Thoughts From the Porch, What Can I Do, Writing

The Way It Was…

gregoryjoel

It’s hard to believe September is already here. Labor Day is the unofficial beginning of Fall so the temperatures here have dropped to the nineties instead of the triple digits and we might even celebrate Labor Day with some rain. I’m hoping but it is Texas after all…

I haven’t written much lately. The heat and oppressive humidity dulled the thinking, and work has taken all the energy I may have. Getting out of sweat-soaked clothes and laying in front of the air conditioning has been norm the last month or so. It’s also the end of our fiscal year at work so evenings are filled with year-end reports and audits. It’s rare to stay awake through the ten pm weather report but that’s okay. The forecast doesn’t change in August. It’s just going to be hot and dry.

My youngest grandkids started school in the middle of last month. Things have changed since I was young. The school year started the day after Labor Day and ended the day before Memorial Day. We didn’t have Monday holidays, so we celebrated them on whatever day of the week they fell on. It seems a bit cruel to send kids back to school while the swimming pools are still open, but I digress…

I have had the privilege of picking my grandkids up from school for a couple of years now. My oldest, Baillie, is working in Alaska, but both of the others are in high school, although they attend different schools. Lucas is close enough to walk to and from Pascal High School where he’s a freshman this year. I get to pick him up on the days he stays late.

Izabella was accepted into the Visual Performing Arts program at I.M. Terrell Academy, which is only two minutes away from the farm. I.M. Terrell was the black high school for many years in Fort Worth when schools were still segregated. Moreover, it’s Ms. Opal Lee’s alma mater. She’s thrilled that Iza is there. It hasn’t hurt Iza that her father works for Terrell’s most famous alumnus.

I’m reminded daily how much I love my grandkids and how much I miss their father. He would (and I’m sure that on another plane he is) be so proud of them. I hope he would be proud of me as well for being there for them. I often wasn’t there for him when he was that age. Addiction has stolen so much from us. It stole both my son’s father and my grandkid’s father. The only difference is that I get the opportunity to make living amends. Jeremy, my son, lost that opportunity on May 29th, 2020.

It’s been four years since he passed. His car still sits in my driveway: another daily reminder that I keep meaning to get to someone else, but still find hard to let go of. Grief has its own timeline. While the daily intensity of the emotion has lessened to a point, there are still days when I retreat by myself to the end of the farm to have a good cry. I don’t feel as overwhelmed as I did in the months after his death, but I still grieve. I know grief’s a process and I’m told by others that have lost children that it doesn’t ever go away. It simply changes.

I have a fellow blogger friend, Mitch, who shares his real memoirs from time to time. I enjoy reading them. I’ve often thought I should share my own stories in some way. Jeremy once told me that he and I should write a book. “Dad, no one would believe that crazy shit”, he’d tell me. Life was certainly not dull, at least outwardly. As my own addiction progressed, life became an extremely dull routine of using, finding ways and means to get more, and repeating the process over and over with greater consequences and self-hatred.

Jeremy and I found a way out and shared that path for several years until he ventured down his own path that included relapsing into active addiction. I stayed on the recovery pathway and prayed that Jeremy would join me once again. He did from time to time but couldn’t seem to stay. I miss him terribly.

I thought that maybe I too, should share some stories – crazy as they may be – in hopes that someone relates and maybe, just maybe, it can make a difference in their journey as I’m sure it will in mine. I still don’t know what to call them. It would be inappropriate to call them my “real memoir” – don’t want to step on anyone’s toes – but they are real and definitely a time of remembering. Maybe writing will ease the grief and make some sense out of the craziness.

Look for them from time to time and pray to keep me honest. One of my favorite lines from a recovery book I read frequently is that “Honesty is the antidote to our diseased thinking”.

Maybe the stories will reflect that…

Belief, Communication, Creation, Dogs, Faith, Gratitude, Grief, Love, Opal's Farm, Pets, Relationships, Rescue Animals, Spirituality, Stories, Thoughts From the Porch

Dr. Doolittle Kind of Stuff

gregoryjoel

We opened our first farmstand of the year at Opal’s Farm on Friday. We anticipated a slow day as it takes time for folks to realize we’re there. True to form, it was a very slow day. A couple of people stopped to ask if we’d be there after work. We’re discovering that the time may not be good for the neighborhood so we will most likely change to Saturday afternoons. We’ll keep everyone in the loop as we discuss those changes this week.

For most of the first couple of hours a small black Corgi-mix and a Chihuahua walked up and down the yards across the street. Stacey, our Volunteer Coordinator, and I were talking to a couple of friends who’d stopped to visit buy some fresh produce and tour the farm. One of our visitors had brought her new dog and her dog caught the attention of the two across the street and they began to venture across Sylvania.

Sylvania is a busy street with traffic that tends to go faster than the thirty-five-miles-per hour-speed limit. We all watched in alarm as they tried to come across the street to make a new friend. They managed to dodge the first round of cars and went back to their side of the street until there was a pause in the traffic. When they tried again a single Lexas SUV came flying down the road. The little black dog escaped safely. The little Chihuahua did not. I don’t wish to be graphic but some of us saw the accident and all four of us heard the loud crunch as the Lexus hit the Chihuahua. It was quite upsetting to a group of dog lovers – especially when the Lexus continued at full-speed down the road, never stopping to check on the dog.

The little black dog walked back out on the street to check on his friend. I ran over to see if his buddy was still alive. Fortunately, it wasn’t. The hit has been loud and fast. Most likely the poor Chihuahua was dead on impact. It was a small comfort to my friends who were crying.

I gently took the body and laid it on the grass. The small black Corgi-mix came over to his friend and sat by the body. He periodically would head a short way in the direction they had originally come from, but always stopped and looked to see if his running buddy was coming and returned to his friend. This went on for about an hour before he headed off to his home around the corner. I followed him to see if I could find the owner. I found his house but not the Chihuahua’s.

I debated telling this story because of its graphic nature. It was upsetting to watch. I’m a dog guy. I have four of them and I love them dearly. My kids and grandkids are out of the house. Jamison, Sadie, Ricky, and Lucy are like our kids. They’re family and, to many of our friends’ chagrin, they are treated as such. I know I’m not alone in this. Just see how many billions of dollars the pet care industry makes per year.

Yet in watching the little black Corgi-mix’s concern (and what I believe was grief) I became acutely aware of our connection to other living beings in our world. I know the human tendency to anthropomorphize our furry (and not so furry) friends. I’m sure that there are many examples that may support this. Science debunks many of the things we attribute to human-like behaviors and emotions in the animal kingdom. It thinks of them as having simply natural, instinctive behaviors. However, they can’t measure or even observe the spiritual connections that are prevalent in the animal kingdom.

I’ve always been taught that language is what differentiated homo sapiens from the rest of the animal kingdom. Recent scientific studies have revealed that the same gene that helps enable language in humans is present in many birds, reptiles, and mice. Studies have shown that other species have the ability to learn new ways to communicate amongst themselves. Language isn’t unique the human beings after all.

Many humans have known this all along on a much deeper spiritual level. Some ancient theological text, such as the books that weren’t canonized into the Hebrew or Christian Bibles, like the books of Enoch, refer to a time when all created beings shared the same language and communication. Indigenous cultures around the world respect the connection between the natural world and humans. They act accordingly and treat creation with care. Saint Francis of Assisi, the founder of the Franciscan order, talked about Brother Sun and Sister Moon – that all created beings are part of one family and should be treated and respected as such. Ask any pet owner if their pet communicates with them. The answer is a resounding yes!

I don’t pretend to be a scientist so whatever I think is simply my personal belief and experience. I would like to think that my dogs are spiritual guides of a sort. It’s no wonder that “dog” is “God spelled backwards. They are loved and give love unconditionally. They experience grief and loss and can tell when I am going through the same. When Missy, my Sheltie passed we buried her in the backyard and placed a stone marker on her grave. Several weeks later, Jamison came to live with us (all our dogs are rescues) and when he went into our backyard for the first time, he walked to Missy’s grave and sat down very respectfully. I’d like to think he honored her and promised her to take care of Margaret and I – which he’s done extremely well.

All four of our fur-babies know when something is going on with us and often respond accordingly. As I sit here working at the computer, Ricky and Lucy are outside playing. Periodically, Ricky comes running in, noses my arm, and checks on me. I love on him for a minute and off he runs out the door to play with his sister.

I see this kind of behavior with other animals as well. We have had a farm hawk for the last couple of years – Ethan – yes, Ethan Hawk. Ethan would follow me through the field as I cleared it each season for new planting. I would chase field mice as I cleared the field and Ethan would gobble up as quickly as he could. He’d stand next to me while doing so. He’d often sit on the bucket of my tractor and “talk” to me.

We loved having Ethan around. He was a magnificent Cooper’s Hawk. We knew that he and his mate – who was usually close by – would leave for a couple of months each summer and come back in the Fall. He and his mate didn’t return this year. We wondered if he was okay and were worried about him. Although he didn’t return, a young Cooper’s Hawk did. He came down and sat on the tractor the other day. I could swear he was Ethan Jr. and tried to let me know. He then flew to Ethan’s tree where he appears to have a nest now. The tradition continues…

I don’t discount science in any way. It explains so much and helps me be a better farmer. However, I intend to continue believing that Spirit is what connects us to each other and to the whole of God’s creation. I’ll continue to treat the natural world as family and do my best to love, nurture, and protect it. After all, isn’t that what we do for family…