Back Porch Break

My Beau

April 25, 2018 by Nancy 24 Comments

He had me at hello. From the moment I took him out of the cage at the adoption center at PetSmart and he wrapped his front paws around my neck and snuggled his head under my chin, I knew he was my cat. What I didn’t know was that he was a one-woman cat, and I would be his woman.

At PetSmart his name was Jellybean, but that just didn’t seem to fit. I had gone cat shopping because I read an article that a solo cat might become depressed. I’d looked over at our cat, Molly, and assessed she was. What she needed was a beau! So Jellybean became Beau Brummett.

As it turned out, the two cats never really bonded, and truth be told, Beau bullied Molly a bit. But for 13 years they enjoyed one another’s company from a distance, established their own rules about whose couch was whose, and had a workable détente.

We had to let go of Beau three weeks ago, and I’m just now able to write about him. It’s been a heartbreaking loss, not just because I loved him, but because he loved me so completely and so unconditionally, and there was nothing I could do to save him. The third round of cancer was too much for all of us. He was only fourteen and a half so it seemed too soon to see him go, yet it was time.

This won’t be one of those tributes touting perfection, however. Beau’s biggest character flaw was that he was afraid of small children, possibly the victim of being carried around in a neck hold by a toddler before we adopted him. As a result, he was labeled “the mean cat” by all of our grandkids because if he couldn’t avoid them, he hissed at them. I know their parents wondered why we kept him around.

We did because of who he was the rest of time. Part Maine Coon, Beau came when called, was trainable, and loyal beyond description. He was the most excellent of cats in terms of his cat-like characteristics. Curious to a fault, he got shut up in the pantry more than once while checking out the supply of cat food. He would be the first to jump into an empty box and found Christmas boxes especially fascinating.

And he was a quick learner. Just one leap off the second-story deck in an attempt to catch a hummingbird and he decided not to do that again!

He was the most affectionate animal I’ve ever been around. Often he would come up to me and put his front paws on my legs, look up at me with those big golden eyes, and want me to pick him up. I was putty in his paws, so most of the time when I was home he was in my arms, perched over my shoulder, or on my lap—even when I was at the computer.

We had two official snuggle times, right before my husband Jim and I went to sleep and first thing in the morning. He never missed one of them, and usually waited in the hallway from about 9:30 PM on to remind me it was time to go snuggle. Any wonder my arms have felt achingly empty? (Jim reminds me that he is willing to snuggle any time, but apologizes for not being fuzzy enough!)

I don’t know what else to say. I miss him. It hurts. I’ve always been sensitive to the grief people feel when losing a pet, but will be even more so now. I don’t want to compare this in any way to the deeper grief of losing a family member or close friend, but I did lose a close and loving companion. No doubt about it.

I’ve cried my way through three PetSmarts and the Humane Society where I went just to visit the cats. I don’t know why. There isn’t a cat alive who could replace Beau, and I know that. Besides it’s too soon to even try to love another cat. Somehow I just had to look.

And while Molly won’t snuggle (please! she just can’t be bothered) her “personal assistant” purr-sonality has her following me all over the house, and she is blossoming now that the whole house is hers. We love her, too, and she deserves to be queen for a while.

When I was praying over Beau for healing, and yes I did, I heard the Lord remind me, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” To comfort me in my grief, He’s whispered, “Think of what a great gift he was to you, not what a great loss you feel now.” OK, Lord, I’ll try. But he was my buddy. My Beau.

To those readers who think they don’t like cats, may I say it’s just like any other bias. Get to know just one well, and you will change your opinion.

An Easter People

March 27, 2018 by Nancy 16 Comments

One of my favorite quotes is from St. Augustine and reads, “We are an Easter people and alleluia is our song!” I love it because it speaks not only to the joy we can have when celebrating Resurrection Sunday, but also to the abundant life that those who believe in the risen Lord can have all year long.

We are an Easter people when we count our blessings and realize we can never get to the end of the list. Alleluia!

We are an Easter people when we gather together and praise the Lord. Alleluia!

We are an Easter people when we open God’s Word to see what encouragement, correction or advice He has for us each day. So we lift up our alleluias before we intervene in prayer for people we love.

We are also an Easter people when we get bad news about a friend or loved one’s diagnosis, or a scary report from our own doctor. Even through our fears we can sing alleluia because of Jesus’ promise in John 16:33: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

We are an Easter people when we grieve. A parent, spouse, sibling, or child dies, and we wonder how we will get through the next few days and the rest of our lives. How will we even be able to speak at the memorial service if that is required of us? Then we remember the Lord promised in 2 Corinthians 12:9, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” We experience that grace descending upon us to comfort us, strengthen us, and be the wind beneath our wings. And so somehow we still sing alleluia—even with a lump in our throats.

Yes, Easter people grieve, but not like those who have no hope because we have the promise of eternal life. Jesus said in John 11:25, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.” Alleluia indeed!

If you aren’t yet one of the Easter people, could this be the Easter that you explore who Jesus is and become one? It’s so easy. Simply believe that Jesus is the Son of God, acknowledge that you are a sinner in need of a Savior (as are we all), and ask the risen Lord to forgive you and come into your heart. When you do, the indwelling of the Holy Spirit will be yours immediately, and a permanent song of alleluia will begin to echo in your soul.

As C.S. Lewis said, Jesus is either a liar, a lunatic, or Lord. (Jesus didn’t leave the “good guy” option open to us.) If this is the first Easter you proclaim him Lord, it will be a wonderful celebration for you here—and the angels will celebrate in heaven, too!

“A Christian should be an alleluia from head to foot,” St. Augustine also said. Christians don’t get everything right. We need forgiveness as much as anyone. And grace. And mercy. But no matter what, “We are an Easter people, and alleluia is our song!”

Flights Not So Fancy

March 15, 2018 by Nancy 18 Comments

Well, our bags aren’t packed but we’re ready to go. My husband and I will be “leaving on a jet plane” twice this spring on short trips to visit family, and it has me thinking about the changes in air travel since I took my first flight.

I’m pretty sure all of our 12 grandchildren flew on an airplane before they were three years old. Some of them flew at much younger ages and quite frequently. I don’t know about you, but I was 16 when I first traveled by air. I’d volunteered to co-chair the Teenage March of Dimes in my hometown of Knoxville, TN. The other co-chair (a boy I thought was especially dreamy!) and I traveled all the way to Memphis with the group sponsor for the regional kick-off and training. I’m pretty sure that even though Memphis is in the same state, we changed planes in Atlanta to get there. (My mother always said she’d have to go through Atlanta to get to heaven, but since she has already departed I’ll have to wait to ask her if that was the case once I see her there!)

For sure we traveled on Delta Airlines, the airline of the South, and my heart was racing as we walked on to the tarmac to climb up that long, steep stairway to get on the plane. I looked back once to see my mom and dad pressed up against the window of the terminal waving and smiling. Because those were two relatively short hops, I don’t remember being served a meal in flight on one of the divided trays they used in the 60’s (remember linen napkins and real silverware even in coach?), but just having a Coca-Cola and bag of peanuts that I didn’t have to share with my sisters was the height of luxury to me.

I also remember how beautiful and glamorous I thought the stewardesses were. (They weren’t called flight attendants in those days.) They looked like Miss America contestants to me with their fancy hairdos, perfect makeup, jaunty hats, and pressed uniforms. On the printed material in the seat pocket were illustrations of stewardesses serenely sliding down the emergency ramps in their heels—and I was reassured by how easy they made it seem.

But at the risk of sounding like a geezer, flying just isn’t what it used to be. Compare the flying you did as a teenager or young adult with your last experience and you’ll agree. Obviously the necessarily stricter security measures have contributed to the change. Once you are scanned or patted down and walk to the nearest chair in your socks carrying your belt and shoes, your expectations for a glamorous travel experience are pretty much over. Add delayed or canceled flights, no leg room, possibly surly gate agents and exhausted flight attendants, and there’s little magic left to write home about.

And how the dress passengers consider appropriate has changed! My mom always traveled in a suit with heels, and my dad wore a sport coat and tie. Dressing to travel was akin to dressing for church. You wanted to look your best. I’m OK with more comfortable, casual travel clothes, but do people really have to board in their pajama bottoms, muscle shirts, and flip-flops—even on an early morning flight?

Yet parts of flying never disappoint. My husband and I woke up in Rome, Italy, one morning in 2011 and went to bed in our own bed in Colorado Springs, CO, that night. We must never stop thinking of that as anything but incredible! There’s also something about flying that gets the cobwebs out of my mind and invigorates my soul. Gazing out the window of a plane seemingly eye level with a full moon, or looking down on fields of puffy clouds, it’s impossible to miss what an amazing universe we are blessed to inhabit.

Some of my best ideas and insights have come while traveling on a plane, and I don’t think that will ever change. Flying helps us realize just how awesome God’s Creation is. When we can hold fast to the best and not fret about the rest, it’s still an adventure worth taking. And remember, any flight that lands safely is a good flight!

The Seed Planter

February 28, 2018 by Nancy 37 Comments

I never met Billy Graham. I never attended one of his crusades, but I did see them on TV. So many notable people who knew him personally have written glowing tributes to “America’s Pastor” since he went to glory on Feb. 21, 2018. While my words won’t measure up to theirs, I feel compelled to add a few to the collection because the Lord whispered in my ear this week, “He impacted you too, you know.”

My parents took my sisters and me to church faithfully when I was growing up. I memorized the books of the Bible and was rewarded with a very fancy bookmark. Yet in all those years, no one really told me about the importance of having a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. No one told me I would need to surrender my life in order to gain it. But I saw people doing that on TV, and the seed was planted.

As a little girl, I was amazed at the immensity of the crowds that came to hear this preacher with the strong voice and the familiar Southern accent. They filled rows and rows of huge stadiums. Not even the University of Tennessee football stadium, the biggest one I’d ever seen, would have been large enough to hold them all. I was moved to tears one night as I watched people of all ages and all colors leaving their seats to come down to the front where Billy Graham stood. The amazing hymn “Just As I Am” echoed up to every ear, and so they came. They came to accept God’s gift of salvation, and commit their lives to Christ.

Little did I know that when I dried my eyes and went to bed that night, a strong seed had been planted in the heart of this little Tennessee girl. With the seed came a message whispering, “there’s more.” It wasn’t until years later, when my life was derailed by the crisis of divorce, that I fell to my knees with tears streaming down my face and cried out to the Lord. “This is too hard,” I sobbed. “Everything is so messed up. I need for You to take over.” My life changed that day from one ending in death and destruction to one with the promise of eternity. And all because a seed was planted and took root. I knew there was more to a life of faith than what I had experienced because Billy Graham said so, and all those people leaving their seats agreed. Just as I was, I came.

Can you just imagine the conversation in heaven last week?
God: It’s time for Us to bring my servant Billy Graham home.
Angel: But why now? He’ll be 100 in a few months. Shouldn’t he stay for the party?
God: Now is the time because he has fought the good fight. He has finished his race. He’s too weak to deliver my message of salvation again himself, but once he comes to Us, those reporting his passing will proclaim it throughout the land once again! Throughout a land that needs the good news of the gospel message as salve for its wounds. We will bring him home now.

And so it was. With a grateful heart I praise God for raising up a man like Billy Graham in our generation. I didn’t meet him here, but I’ll meet him there. In the meantime, I believe I have some seeds to sow in his honor.

All Rise!

February 8, 2018 by Nancy 15 Comments

I’m fresh off serving on a jury in a criminal case and there are more things lingering in my mind than the knifing and vicious beating captured by the security camera that recorded the crime. I’m hoping those images will leave me soon, because it wasn’t even a TV show or movie I would have chosen. But I hope the positive aspects of serving on the jury stay with me for a long time to come. I see these benefits as falling into three categories: the judge, the jury, and the justice.

First, the judge. I’m sure all judges aren’t like the one I had a chance to observe for four days, but this one was everything you think a judge should be. Calm but firm. Just as respectful to the defendant and the jurors as to the young attorneys before him. Able to treat every human being in that courtroom with dignity, and rightfully expecting the same respect for himself, his staff, and his court.

I know the old image of God as judge is narrow. Judgment is only one of the ways that God relates to all of us. He is so much more than judge. But as I observed the judge in this case, the thought crossed my mind that God sees all His people in much the same way. Equally valued. Equally heard. Blessedly, God also offers forgiveness and love with equanimity, but that’s a story for another time.

Second, the jury. What an amazing sociological experiment it is to take 12 people who just met, put them in a small room together, and ask them to make a very complex and serious decision together. We were men and women of all ages and stages of life. The judge instructed us to look at the facts and just the facts, but with an eye to our personal life experiences as well. Common sense was not ruled out.

Tentatively we began to get acquainted. Over bathroom breaks or when waiting for our Jimmy John’s lunch order to arrive, we shared stories about jobs put on hold, children needing to be picked up at kindergarten, past jury experiences, etc. Getting to know one another on a personal level made it easier to understand the position each person took on the verdict. Initially, we were split 9 to 3, and held to that divide through part of one day and most of the next. It was frustrating and time-consuming, but our charge was to come up with a unanimous decision.

So now, the justice. When it seemed all our active listening and reasoning skills had been exhausted, and we were still at a stalemate, we sent a question to the judge asking, “What constitutes a ‘hung’ jury?” Soon he beckoned us back into the courtroom. As with all our other appearances, as soon as we were at the door to the courtroom we heard, “All rise for the jury.” As juror number one I entered first, trying to convey a confidence we weren’t feeling at the time.

The judge kindly repeated key instructions to us, reminded us that it was our charge to come to a decision, and then dismissed us. When we were back in deliberation, a young mom with two preschoolers exclaimed, “I think we were just sent to our room!” And in fact, we were. I don’t know what changed. Insightful statements finally heard. Emotions analyzed and set aside. Respect for the judge fresh in our minds. I just know that we were able to agree at last, and we notified the court that we had a verdict.

Once all was said and done, the judge visited us in our room to thank us and give us certificates. He reiterated how amazing the criminal justice system is in the United States, and how very few countries hold trials giving the accused a jury of his or her peers. “As cumbersome as it seems at times, it works,” he stated. And at that moment we all agreed wholeheartedly.

Full confession: if I’d had a good excuse not to serve, I probably would have offered it. I didn’t want to cancel my plans for four days any more than anyone else did, but now I’m glad I was chosen. I encourage you to “all rise” to the occasion, too, if you are called. Once you serve, you’ll stand a bit taller and feel a bit prouder of the justice system in this country we are blessed to call home.

Still Here at Seventy

January 21, 2018 by Nancy 24 Comments

I started writing my weekly “Back Porch Break” lifestyle column for the Gazette and the Pueblo Chieftain in the summer of 1995. Preparing to write about turning 70 recently, I began by looking back at past columns about growing older. I found three.

The first was a column titled “Anti-Aging Devices,” written as I turned 48, because in it I confessed I’d started reading the miracle ads about how to reverse aging in the back of magazines! I even wrote that I found saying “four dozen years” preferable to that “late fortyish number” because it didn’t sound as bad. I rationalized, “four dozen cupcakes would be gone fast at a Cub Scout meeting…a street breakfast with only four dozen eggs wouldn’t last till sunrise…and four dozen roses wouldn’t cover the wheel of a Tournament of Roses float…so four dozen years doesn’t seem too many.” How I wish I could go back and tell my 48-year-old self, “Honey, you don’t know anything about aging yet. Quit your whining!”

Then there was a column I wrote on “Turning 50.” Just two years later I’d gotten a more positive spin on the inevitable progression of time. “Fifty means freedom,” I wrote, quoting my then 82-year-old mom. “Free to believe what I believe. Free to spend time with people I cherish. Free to write what I want to write. Free to say what I know to be true, without apology.” Well, wasn’t I just the enlightened one? Fifty, huh?

Eventually the column became a blog and so “The 60th Birthday Train” appeared on my website. Re-reading this column now makes me sad and I apologize 10 years later to anyone who found it depressing! You see, I turned 60 just after my mother-in-law passed away, and my heart and spirit weren’t ready to party. I thought I’d said so clearly, but well-meaning friends and family insisted, and so I went through a series of thoughtful gatherings with a forced smile on my face.

The analogy that came to mind was that I was on a train looking out the window at stations passing by in a blur. I wrote, “At one station I saw my sister and her husband arriving from Tennessee…further down the track, four dear friends stood around a round table and lifted champagne glasses in a toast…at another stop a caring husband stood bearing a bouquet of orange tulips…yet remembered by a heart that grieves it’s all a blur.”

I wrapped up this amazingly uplifting column with the statement, “The one thing that forces the passenger train of life to come to a screeching halt is death.” No kidding, I wrote that! But then I got my chin off the floor to conclude, “We continue traveling toward whatever station comes next…and each station is a gift. Each age achieved is a privilege. And having people who love us enough to help us celebrate those truths, even when we don’t feel like celebrating, is God’s loving provision for us. On that, I’m not blurry at all.” Nice save, sister, I’d tell my 60-year-old self.

So now what? The train kept chugging and I’m still here at seventy. I’m not going to write about growing old this decade, however, because I know my friends in their eighties and nineties would say, “Seventy? That’s nothing, sweetie! Get out and enjoy life. These are the good years.”

How does it feel to be seventy? Mostly good, yet I find myself in a love-hate relationship with the word “still.” More frequently than ever I hear, “You’re still a nice looking woman…for your age.” Or, “You still don’t dye your hair, do you?” Or, “You still exercise? Good for you.” How long will it be before someone says, “Oh, you’re still driving?” Or, “How nice you still have your own teeth.” I don’t like those uses of the word still.

Yet I love the word still when I consider that I’m still pretty healthy, still in love with my husband of almost 30 years, still privileged to spend time with precious adult kids and grandkids, still blessed beyond all I could imagine. Added to that, I’m still a daughter of the King, still forgiven for all my sins—past, present and future—and still heaven bound!

As I look over my 70 years, the failures and successes, the joys and the sorrows, I’m still so very grateful to God for granting me this life. And I’m glad I’m still here at seventy.