In Meowmory of Sheba

13 1/2 years ago, Erik and I got married in my home church in Cedarburg, WI.  After our honeymoon, we drove his truck, filled with wedding gifts, to Conrad, MT, where we were serving as pastors.  On the way, we stopped at a friend's house, knowing that they had kittens they were giving away.  We met a few kittens, and a cute little gray one seemed to like us.  So we added her to our haul and brought her home with us.  Sheba was the first pet that was ever just mine.

She was part-Siamese, which made her very vocal.  Even when she was full-grown, she had a high-pitched yip and would have yipping conversations with me from time to time.  Perhaps thanks to a couple over-excited little girls she met when she was a kitten, Sheba wasn't fond of strangers.  I always described her as "curious but not friendly."  She'd often sniff people, and when they'd try to pet her, she'd decide she didn't want any of that, and would walk away.  But she always loved us, even when we tried to drug her and take her on a 2-day car trip to Wisconsin when we moved here.  The drug only served to slow her down and make her meow sound drunk.  I don't think she slept more than an hour in the car.  It was a long 2 days.  She still loved us, even when we brought screaming babies into the house. 

I took her to the vet maybe 6 months ago, and she had pneumonia.  They gave her a shot and declared her well a few weeks later.  She still coughed occasionally, but otherwise, she seemed okay.  She was less okay when we brought Ginger home.  When she saw our energetic, excited, jumpy puppy, I could see her thinking, "Really?  I'm too old for this crap."  She calmly walked away from the puppy, down to the basement, where she sleeps and eats.  And that's where she's lived, by choice, for the last month.  She's snuck upstairs a few times, and we've brought her up a few times, but she always quietly walks back down to the basement, as if to say, "Thanks for thinking of me, but I'd rather escape the puppy madness."

For the last few days, we've found Sheba in odd places - under our bed, in our bathroom, sitting outside our shower.  Yesterday, we came home from church, and she was more howly than usual in the basement.  Within a few minutes, she came upstairs to the living room, which she hasn't done in over a month.  She quietly laid down on the carpet, and within a couple minutes, she had died. 

The girls and I were shocked.  If she was still sick, she hadn't shown it.  13 isn't that old for a cat.  We talked a little about losing pets and our sadness, and we just held one another for a while.  Later, when I told Scarlett that maybe someday we'll get another cat, she said, "It would just die."  You've gotta love a 5-year-old fatalist.  :) 

Losing a pet is hard.  Sheba's been a part of our family for longer than our kids have.  We have lots of memories of her, from various stages of our life together.  We may get another cat (long after Ginger is better trained and chills out a bit), but it'll never be Sheba.  We're grateful that she was a part of our family. 

We love you Sheba - we'll miss you.

Instant toddler

I am not a dog lover.  I'm more a fan of cats.  I appreciate that cats are independent, can live fine without much help, and that they have to get to know you before they decide you're wonderful.  Dogs are a lot of work.  They make bigger messes, have bigger needs, and they lick and sniff everything, which I've never quite gotten used to.

Erik loves dogs, as does Scarlett.  In fact, we've always suspected that Scarlett was part dog.  She too, would lick and chew anything in her path.  She loves to walk on all fours, and her barks are indistinguishable from real dog barks.  Erik had a yellow lab, Dakota, when we got married.  She was a mellow dog that lived outside most of the year.  When she died about 18 months ago, we knew we wouldn't be replacing her.

But things change.  I could see how much Scarlett would benefit from having her own dog, and I knew Erik would like one.  Besides, I figured it would be good for Sierra to become less afraid of dogs.  So we decided we'd get a puppy after Christmas.  The girls were very excited, and I think their dad was too.  I liked the idea of a cute little puppy, but the pragmatist inside me kept brooding over how much work a puppy would be.

So on December 26, we went to the Humane Society near where my family lives, and we met several puppies.  We finally met "Teddy," a 2-month-old female puppy who was the same color as a teddy bear.  She seemed much more mellow than the other hyper puppies we met.  So she became the newest member of our family.  We renamed her Ginger.  She's part German Shepherd, part mystery.  We've done a little research, and it seems she may only grow to be 25 pounds.  Her mystery ancestors must be much smaller breeds.

I very quickly learned that we had brought a toddler into our home.  We had to start putting things up and away like we did when we had toddlers.  And the nighttime routine was more like having a newborn.  Erik slept on the couch for nearly a week, letting Ginger out at least 3-4 times a night.  Thankfully, she's sleeping a little better now.

Probably the most wonderful discovery in the last 2 weeks has been that Sierra is an exceptional caregiver.  For the kid who was afraid of dogs, she's now fallen in love with ours.  She jumps up to take her outside, she holds her with a smile on her face, and she loves to play with her.  It's been really fun to see how our 9-year-old mama-wanna-be has finally found something to mother appropriately.

I'm still very practical about how much work it will be to own a dog, but Ginger is one of us now, and it'll be fun to see how she grows, and how we grow with her.

Appreciation

If I ever thought I wasn't appreciated, the last month has me eating my words, as well as lots of cake.  A month ago, I turned 40, and my husband orchestrated a surprise birthday party for me.  We're not just talking about a nice dinner party with my 8 closest friends.  This was a party attended by family, friends, colleagues, and parishioners, totaling over 140 people.  What?!  I guess I didn't even know 140 people liked me.  Must've been the free food, I figured.  :)  But I was incredibly humbled and grateful that so many people came to celebrate with me.

I have confidence in many things about myself.  I know I write well.  I'm a good mom.  I have a nice singing voice.  But I was very shy as a child, and it's never been easy for me to make friends or get to know people.  People have often perceived my shyness as snobbiness. I work in the church, so I feel like people think I'm dull, weird, and judgy.  For these and other reasons, I've never been confident that people actually liked or appreciated me.  But I suppose we've all got an insecure 7th grader threatening to burst out of us.

Yesterday, our congregation had a potluck to celebrate that we've now done ministry at Our Savior's for 10 years.  100 people came, and many others wished they could've come.  Numerous people came to tell us how much they appreciated us and how we've touched their lives in these 10 years.  We got verbal and written greetings beautifully sharing people's gratitude and excitement about continuing to do ministry together in the future.  It was almost surreal.  For most pastors, such appreciation is saved for their farewell party.  When we left our previous call in Montana, the most stoic, quiet people who hardly said a word to us in our 3 years there, came and tearfully recounted the reasons that they loved us and would miss us.  Yesterday, we heard, "We're so blessed you came here.  Thanks for all you've done for us."  It sounded very much like what we heard in our last call, but there was no, "Goodbye and good luck" at the end.  Because they're going to see us next week.  And next month, and for a long time after that.  I don't think I was prepared to hear such rich words of love and gratitude from people who I'll continue to preach to, worship with, laugh with, and cry with in the foreseeable future. 

I think pastors expect to be underappreciated.  So much of what we do goes unseen.  After all, "Pastors only work on Sundays," right?  But in the last month, I realized that I was unprepared to hear how deeply we are appreciated.  We put a lot of time, creativity, energy, and thought into ministry.  Often, just doing ministry is enough to satisfy and excite me.  But hearing how much people appreciate what we do and who we are to them, has been a most unexpected delight.  It reminded me of the power of words and gratitude, and inspires me to verbalize my thanks even more often.

So who do you most appreciate in your life?  Have you told them?  Why not tell them now?

I'm Pedi-"Cured"

You know how some people say, "You can't tickle yourself,"?  They're wrong.  My feet are so ticklish that I can easily tickle myself.  Before you take this as an invitation to tickle me the next time you're in my presence, understand this - when people tickle me, I want to slug them.  Seriously.  Some people find tickling to be fun and cute.  And don't get me wrong, I love the giggles that erupt out of my children when I tickle them from time to time.  But hear this now - if you tickle me on purpose, I cannot be responsible for what harm may come to you.  Being tickled flips a switch inside me that makes me want to lash out.  I feel immediately irritated and angry, and my teeth, jaw, and fists clench.

This is the #1 reason I was never interested in getting a pedicure, closely followed by the utter lack of understanding of why any human being would choose to minister to the feet of strangers.  Yeah, I know that Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, and I've washed people's feet before.  But to make a career out of cutting toenails and sanding callouses off other people's feet is outside the realm of my comprehension.  Sure, it can be fun to polish somebody else's toenails, but the rest of their job gives me a big case of the icks.  I love shoes.  I do not love feet.  They're goofy-looking, often dirty and smelly, and just plain gross sometimes.  I never understood why people would get pedicures - I can tend my own feet and polish my own toenails, thank you very much. 

My first pedicure was a gift from my parents, just before Scarlett was born.  I was terrified.  I was just certain I'd kick the woman in the face.  Repeatedly.  Honestly, there were several moments of sheer ticklish terror, as she sanded the bottom of my feet.  But overall, it was a pleasant experience.  I can't say that it was relaxing, as I was too focused on not jumping or squealing, but at least no injuries ensued.  And my baby was born to a mother with soft, pretty feet.  Phew!

I've had a few pedicures since then, and it gets a little easier each time.  It's nice to have someone care for me in such a unique way.  As I got the above pedicure while on vacation last week, I started thinking about the people (mostly women) who earn their living by caring for other people's feet.  It's not a glamorous job, but it is an intimate one.  They see where we're sensitive and where we're toughened.  Pedicurists may not know where we've been in life, but they see how our paths have affected us, in a small way.  They cradle and massage the parts of our body that get us to important places in our lives.  So last week, I looked upon my pedicurist with a profound respect.  This woman probably doesn't make a lot of money, nor does she get much respect in the world, but she cares for strangers in an intimate and quietly profound way. 

So can I finally find pedicures relaxing?  Not quite.  But I have a deeper understanding of why people get pedicures, and a true respect for those who give them.  You might even say that I'm pedi-cured.

Forty Years

I'm in my 30's.  For about 9 hours.  Or 22, if you take into account the actual time of my birth.  On my 30th birthday, I was sung to by a whole congregation of people, just before I had to tell them that Erik and I would be leaving 4 weeks later.  Not my favorite birthday memory, though my 30's have truly been the best decade I've ever had.  I got 2 fantastic kids, a great congregation, a better sense of who I am, and some special friendships out of my 30's.  Not too shabby.

I'm not bothered by turning 40, so bring on the, "Lordy, Lordy, Jennifer's 40!" if you must.  What other words rhyme with "forty" anyway?  Sporty, shorty, snorty, warty, Gordy, Morty.  Not a stellar selection of rhyming possibilities.  Even if you're a little bit more creative with words, I'm not sure I need a birthday rhyme about the health of my aorty or my fondness for Havorty cheese.

In thinking about everything I've experienced in 40 years, I started thinking of what else I could've been doing.  A lot of things happened in the Bible "for 40 years."  Just think, I could've been wandering in the wilderness for 40 years, eating manna and quail and complaining about everything.  Several passages talk about how the Israelites' clothing and shoes didn't wear out in those 40 years (wow!), and apparently, their feet never even swelled while doing all that wandering.  I also discovered that the length of my life is the same as the length of David's reign and Solomon's reign.  And in Judges "the land rested for forty years" a whole bunch of times. 

I'm thankful for the amazing people and experiences I've had in the 4 decades of my life.  Since I'm not a beer-lover, I'll slightly twist the lyrics of the popular country song, and then it's a pretty good representation of things: "God is great, life is good, and people are crazy."  Crazy keeps life interesting.  My life is plenty interesting. 

I'm confident that my 40's will bring me fewer diapers to change and more sleep.  I'll worry less about whether I'm doing well enough at all my roles, and I'll be more confident in what I'm able to do well.  I'll spend less time wondering if people will like me for who I am, and I'll spend more time trying to get to know people for who they are.  I expect I'll accumulate a few more wrinkles and a couple more pounds in my forties, but even if they do come, I hope they'll be wrinkles coming from joy and pounds coming out of great fellowship.

I guess that's enough for now.  I've gotta go enjoy the rest of my 30's.  The 40's are coming, and I'm ready.  Almost.

The joys of home ownership

When Erik and I were first married and living in a parsonage in Montana, all we wanted was our own house.  We watched HGTV constantly and talked about what our first "real" house would be like, and what we'd do to it.  Then we got our opportunity.  When we were called to Beloit, we had a long weekend to find the house we wanted to buy.  This house was cute, had many features we liked, and would fit all our furniture.  We moved in nearly 10 years ago and quickly repainted several rooms.  Having black or dark teal baseboards in the upstairs bedrooms didn't particularly agree with us.  The previous owners must've been especially fond of dark teal.  It was everywhere - front door, shutters, trim, wallpaper, even the bathroom carpeting.  Plush carpeting?  In a bathroom?  That didn't last long.  Over the years, we've done a great deal to the house - new siding, new windows, a new shower. We installed a fireplace, French doors to the bedroom, water softener, and a bathtub in the master bath.  We replaced flooring, appliances, garage door, and replaced the deck with a patio.

We've had our share of home-ownership issues.  In the last year alone, we've had raccoons in the attic, a branch that knocked a hole in our roof, (leaving our bedroom ceiling a lovely leak-brown color), a broken water heater the day before Easter, and a leaky floor in our basement.

As I've mentioned, we must have bad appliance karma.  We're on our 3rd washing machine and 3rd dishwasher.  In 10 years.  Our brand new dishwasher was delivered 2 weeks ago.  It looked shiny and beautiful...sitting in the middle of our kitchen for 2 weeks.  It didn't fit in its space.  What?!  It's standard size, so it's not that we bought a behemoth.  It turns out that when our kitchen was remodeled, years before we arrived, folks cut some corners.  Apparently, when you install cabinets, you leave an inch between the cabinets and the counters, to allow room for the dishwasher.  And since the old dishwasher was slightly shorter, they didn't see the need for that.  I expected that we'd need to replace the counters or at least cut out the countertop over the dishwasher, and replace it with butcher block.  But our handyman first tried cutting out the tile floor in the dishwasher gap.  No good.  He finally brought in a friend, and they detached our counters and put in the 1-inch space, put the counters back, and trimmed it out.  Not a job that elicits, "Oohs and ahhs," from people, but at least the dishwasher is in its eternal home, our dishes are clean again, and my dishpan hands can be a thing of the past.

I've breathed a sigh of relief and hope we're done with endless handyman visits and major complications for a while.  Wait...I hear scratching in the attic.  We'll just pretend it's the home ownership fairy, doing a healthy house dance for us.  Yeah, that's it.

Maytag Mutiny

I think I was meant to live in simpler times.  My (our) history with household appliances is rather tragic.  I don't know what it is, but we have a tough time keeping appliances as long as they should last.  When we moved here, we bought a front-loading washing machine.  It died after 4 years.  We bought another.  It died 5 years later.  My parents tell me that they've had their washing machine almost as long as I've been alive.  What do I do to jinx our washing machines?  I haven't put any pets or children in there, nor do I wash bricks or rocks with any frequency.

The garbage disposal whimpered to a low hum in the last year, so that was replaced around the same time as the washing machine.

The day after Good Friday (a rather busy time of the year for us), our water heater died.  It was pretty clear that it wasn't going to be raised to new life with Jesus that Easter morning.  Nor did it die to save the world from sin.  Instead, its death inspired sinful and colorful words on that already stressful Holy Saturday.  Luckily, some saints from our congregation helped Erik to install a new one, so we wouldn't have to go without hot water on Easter morning.                   

And now the dishwasher is dead.  Not dead, exactly, but close enough, unless you ascribe to the philosophy that if something is merely touched by water and soap, it's clean.  Our dishes are most certainly not clean.  Spoons come out looking so much like they did when they went in that we could probably identify who used it last, by the lip-marks in the thin layer of yogurt on it.  The wash cycle seems to only make leftover food cling more stubbornly to the plates, rather than washing it off.  And transparent glasses are now translucent at best.

We bought this new dishwasher about 7 years ago, when our dishes weren't getting very clean.  After we got it, we noticed cloudy dishes.  The repairman said, "The dishwasher can only do so much.  What you really need is a water softener."  So, much to my husband's chagrin, we got a water softener, which makes him feel slimier in the shower and leaves his skin feeling softer afterwards.  Oh, the horror!  :)

A year ago, tines started breaking off the lower dishwasher rack due to corrosion.  Argh.  I called the company to order a new rack.  Get this - a new dishwasher rack would cost over $200.  What?!  We said, "We'll deal with a few broken tines."  But now, it looks like we'll not only get a new rack, but a whole new dishwasher, unless we want to spend $300 for a new pump, in addition to labor costs.  And it won't arrive quite in time to do dishes for Sierra's birthday party on Sunday.  Yeah, that's about right.

Here's hoping our appliances are done being drama queens for a while.  I like meeting new people, but I'd rather not meet any more plumbers or appliance installers for a long time.