God's Winter-Warmth

Before I came back to the United States, I struggled with the thought of facing winter. I wondered how I could bear it after living in tropical and desert countries for so many years. I hated the cold and had lots of fears about going through a whole winter at home. However, God showed me that not only could I bear it, He could make it something beautiful for me to experience. God used Buddy to teach me how to see the wonders of winter. Through prayer, God opened up my heart. I learned that He cared even about my fear of cold weather! My "heart journey" is reflected in the following poem.

Change of Perspective

Anchored for years in sun-splashed countries

my return to North America

meant acculturation to cold once more;

‘winter’ grew into a mountain-sized dilemma

overpowering my mustard seed-sized faith.

I crept about shunning the cold.

“Oh God, take away this fate!”

“No. Instead let me take you through it.”

He handed me three crucial tools:

a pair of boots, my dog and a new perspective

with all five senses heightened

to experience the winter I feared.

He planned to woo me

with a fresh, new love for winter

that I began to treasure.

God used Buddy to show me snow wonders!

God walked alongside us ...

Up and down hills, through the woods,

over fields chuckling at a bright-eyed dog

who delighted in his new world;

My prayer became, "God show me more!"

The overflowing fruits of God’s winter-warmth

soon burgeoned inside my heart.

-- 2/27/07 (rev 2010)

Elmo, Dad's Sidekick

Whatever happened to that pie-eating, parade-loving bear of a black lab named Elmo? Better known as Don Bovaird “The Tree Man’s” popular sidekick, Elmo did the rounds with him every day for four years from the back of Don’s 1939 Ford pick-up. “That dog never gets sick or tired of the road,” Don used to say, noting how Elmo played his role as ‘ambassador’ to the hilt, welcoming kids and adults alike to “Elmo’s Place.” They made a good team.

Not everyone who saw Elmo liked him riding in the back of the truck. Always the storyteller, Don used to talk about a woman who once criticized him, “That dog doesn’t even have any water!” Don quipped, “Neither do I and you don’t see me complaining.” Truth be told, that dog was treated better than most kids.

Not all tree climbers appreciated Elmo’s gusto either. Once working on a lake bank, a customer set out a large plate of freshly baked cookies. Don arrived on site. He started talking to the customer. Elmo was given a rare respite from the truck. "Let him run around," the customer invited. Elmo was having a good run when he spied the cookies. That dog gulped every single one of them down. "Ah maan," one worker moaned when he found out. "That's it! Tie 'em up. Let's throw Elmo over the lake bank!" another tree climber threatened in jest. Don shook his head, as he does when he is startled, "Get in the truck, Elmo!" He let down the tailgate and Elmo obediently jumped up. I picture him saying that with a touch of humor in his voice. It was the talk of our dinner table that night.

Dad took Elmo everywhere with him. Dad even made up a dog bed and Elmo slept in the truck at night. The next morning after his morning bathroom run, he'd get back up and they'd be ready to start the rounds again.

After my father passed away, my family thought Elmo should have a different kind of life. A corrections officer that my sister knew fell in love with him, and offered to take him in. She had a farm and other dogs for him to run with. It was a sad day for me when she came to pick him up a a few days after the funeral. It was another drastic change for me. Losing Elmo felt like losing a little more of my father. I wasn't ready to deal with that.

I think my father would be happy to know he's well-cared for, and often gets rides in a large van around town. I call his new owner from time to time to hear about Elmo's adventures with his new pack, and once I even got to see him.

Sometimes I imagine dad driving up to the farm in Cambridge Springs. He'd lower the tail gate of his truck and say in his matter-of-fact way, "Get in, Elmo." Elmo would be wild with excitement to see dad after so long. He'd leave the pack and jump on up into the truck. Their day would continue as if they'd never been apart. I love this scenario. But it does make me teary-eyed.

My father, always practical, would have seen the situation as my family did. Dad always looked forward. He might reminisce but never let sentiment cloud his enjoyment of living each day and appreciating what he could do with it. He moved on.

I'm trying to adopt that attitude.

A Feast for the Senses

Each morning and afternoon I take my dog, Buddy, out for a long walk and, upon his insistence, we greet nature. I don't always want to go in the cold and snow but he ignores my cranky attitude. Even if I am reluctant to set out, by the time our walk is finished, I’m always grateful that I went. Buddy has a way of showing me how to appreciate these simple walks. I can tell that he views these walks as “adventures” by the way he wags his tail and how he explores when I let him loose. Winter is his favorite season.

Buddy was born in the United Arab Emirates and is, technically, a desert dog accustomed to intense heat year round. I worried how he’d take to the colder weather when I shipped him home. Turns out I didn't need to be concerned about how he would adapt to our Pennsylvania winter because from the get-go, he became my "snow dog!" This is one of our recent adventures.

~~~~

Buddy and I always love the month of February. It's a small respite in the midst of longer, more harried months. Buddy, definitely decisive today, led us into the woods to savor a feast for the senses.

This morning as we set out, we listened to a busy woodpecker, the shhhhhh-ing of the wind as it rustled through my clothing and Buddy's fur and dissipated off into the trees. We heard a series of whistles of a distant train followed by hundreds of wheels set in motion and the groaning of metal accompanying it. I found my faded old boots sinking into the course, thicker snow from past storms. Buddy cocked his head and observed something in the woods I couldn't hear, or see. Somehow satisfied, he lost interest and moved on.

We slipped past an old now-rusted gate that had once been spray-painted silver and onto a footpath we'd worn into the snow. We walked alongside a chain link fence. I felt the thin, velvety carpet of new snow under the thin tread of my boot. A light curtain of snow fell on us as we hiked along. It felt soft on my face, and melted almost as soon as it touched Buddy's black fur. Buddy and I squeezed through a faded-white cast-iron gate with a sign welded onto the front, “No Dumping at any Time.” Buddy picked up the scent of something and strained against his leash to chase after it. "Whoa, Buddy! Slow down! I don't wanna fall," I scolded. Forced to slow to my speed, he burrowed his nose into the soft snow and it came up white. He wore a big, goofy grin on his face, and nudged me for a treat as I drew near, “You silly creature,” I couldn’t help but give him a quick hug and brush off the rest of the snow. “Oh, you’re getting gray, Buddy.” Otherwise, people would still call him a pup because of his short stature.

We continued on our footpath, surrounded by brown trees and snow, which stretched as far as my eyes could see. I felt cocooned by the rustic beauty. The air felt fresh. The snow looked clean. It was as if I'd just stepped onto the cover of a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle box. What more could we want?

Buddy halted -- every muscle alert. Uh-oh! "Whacha lookin' at, Bud?" I followed the direction of his gaze. "Ohhhh, another dog. I get it." Buddy assessed the situation. We stood at one end of a softball diamond and they stood their ground on the other end. We eyeballed each other. "Ah, Bud! They've turned around. You didn't even bark. Good boy!"

We descended down a gentle slope and I spied the green paint of an outhouse, both doors which were trussed securely in place by a chain link lock. The outhouse stood out a short distance from the bare branches at the edge of the woods. “Ready?” As always when we reached this point, I let him off his leash. Together we sprinted to the fork in the road.

My heart thumped in my chest as I tried to catch my breath. He wagged his tail. He was totally in the moment and thrilled to be free and active. After he ran around for a bit, he nudged me for a treat. Seeing he was out of energy, I clipped the leash back on.

Time to head home.

I peered into the snow. “Look Buddy, deer tracks,” Indeed there were clear, well-formed hoof markings imprinted in the crusty snow. They indicated the deer had gone up the hill in the same direction we were headed. "D'ya think we're gonna see any deer t'day, Bud?"

Unfortunately, deer were not on our agenda.

We reached the base of our last hill. Halfway up the steep incline, Buddy paused. It was his cue to me that he wanted another dog biscuit. His lovely dark eyes followed my hand and I pulled out a broken biscuit from my coat pocket. His dark, moist nose bumped against my palm. For just a moment, he munched it down, and then moved forward once more.

I love these biscuit moments. I think it's because it reflects a certain bond between us. If I have forgotten to bring the biscuits, he gives me a long soulful, reproachful stare that cuts me to the quick.

An hour and fifteen minutes from the time we set out, we slipped back through the door of my garage. There, I opened the door to my apartment. Our routine began once again. I pulled off my dog-walking boots, plopped my hat and gloves into their proper basket and hung up my scarf and jacket on its hook.

"Buddy, time to eat!"

Today was a good day: Buddy made it up the stairs without limping. His ten-year-old arthritic joints didn't slow him down as they usually did.

Thank you, God, for your blessings this beautiful February morning. Lord, I especially thank you for hand-picking such a cheerful companion for me. Only You could transform a malnourished desert dog into the great snow dog adventurer that he has become here in Pennsylvania.

A Buck Steals into the Night

"Woof! Woof! Woof!”

Barking startled me out of my dreams and I shook my head to focus on the time at the clock beside me. 2:35 am.

“Woof! Woof! Woof!”

I threw the layers of quilted warmth off me and dashed into the next room where Buddy had jumped up, his face pressed closely up against the glass.

"What are you barking at, Boy?"

“Woof! Woof! Woof!”

"Shshsh! Shuush! C’mon! We don’t want to wake up everyone, do we? What do ya see out there?"

As if seriously contemplating my question, Buddy paused.

I flipped on the light to the kitchen, then quickly switched it off. If anyone or any people were out there, I had just alerted them and they would now know that I was on to them.

“Woof! Woof! Grrrrr!” Buddy started up again. He sounded more menacing. His breath steamed up the window.

Out past the garden a movement caught my eye for the briefest of moments. Just there under the streetlight on the adjacent street. Two eyes? The feeling of being watched.

“Grrrrrrr! Woof! Woof! Grrr!”

A form leaped straight into the arc of light. There, silhouetted against a black sky stood an enormous deer – a magestic buck! He remained stationery, seeming to lock eyes with Buddy for a few moments, then in two bounds disappeared off into the darkness.

It felt somehow as if God had orchestrated that inspiring flash of splendor with me in mind.

Thank you, Lord! Let me always appreciate your love songs to me, morning or evening (or in the wee hours of the middle of the night)!