Week 1, Day 3: Spiritual Training

As I am writing, the sweat on my back is starting to dry, causing me to chill a little. I just finished running 3.1 miles on the treadmill at the gym; hopefully that effort will translate into running the 3.1-mile Jingle Bell Run in two weeks in downtown Indianapolis.

Ann and I decided a few weeks back to put the event on our calendars so that we would stay motivated to run. She had been running with her children in their cross country training; I was running just because I could.

But with cold, dark weather coming, we both knew it would be hard to keep hitting the pavement.

It was a good goal really, choosing a race in mid-December, when all attempts at maintaining a healthy schedule are in vain if we aren't careful. In fact, we probably should have also chosen a race in late November, because my busy schedule during that time put my training in serious jeopardy. In fact, until this evening, I was pretty sure that I was not going to be in shape to run the race.

Tonight, when I made it through a dry run with a week and a half left to go, I'm pretty sure I will be able to do it. I just need to stick with my training over these next few busy days.

I couldn't help but think of the Advent season as I was aching and panting and sweating profusely this evening. Advent is a good spiritual goal for us all in this season when shopping and partying and wrapping would otherwise distract us from the healthy spiritual pursuits we all know we need.

Without Advent, I might go the whole month of December and never even think about Jesus until Christmas Eve. Advent helps me with the discipline to come daily to Jesus during this month, however, and to anticipate his comings.

This running goal of ours was also a chance to start over, in a sense. Since I fancy myself a runner, I should really be in good enough shape at any time to run a 5k. That's not something I should have to train for. But I get busy, and I don't put in the miles, and suddenly, I realize I need to begin again if I'm going to be in that kind of shape.

Advent is also a time to start over, to remember to do what we should have been doing all year long. Even though Advent comes at the end of the year, this season of expectation is actually the beginning of the church calendar

In a sense, Advent is like New Year's Day for Christians. It's a time to resolve again to look for the coming of Jesus in everything we do.

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Today's Bible Reading

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Other Advent Thoughts . . . 

Keep It Simple Sister from Llama Momma

Pregnant with Christmas from The Gypsy Mama

and more from Mark Roberts, this time from The High Calling: Waiting for the Shepherd

Week 1, Day 2: Unwrapping the Past

Friday evening after work, I made some quick purchases to help with the holiday decorating so that Saturday morning, as soon as the housework was done, I could begin decorating in earnest.

My heart filled as I pulled down the large plastic tubs from their storage space in the garage. I opened the lid to reveal some of my most treasured possessions. A hand-made stocking from my grandmother, a nativity scene made of pottery brought back from Guatemala by my friend Dave, a Starbucks cup ornament in memory of my friend Erik.

One by one, I unwrapped the treasures that would transform my house from ordinary to radiant. I hung the wreath I put together last year adorned with my parents' first ornaments from shortly after they married, along with some special ornaments I bought on a family trip to Nashville. I arranged a new Advent wreath with newly purchased candles and a hand-thrown pottery bowl made by my aunt Sue.

As I decorated the house with these special items from the past, I also remembered Advent celebrations and traditions and meditations from the past. Coming again and again to this Advent season has allowed me to accumulate insights and truths just as I have accumulated ornaments and wall hangings.

And as I come again to this space each day for writing and reflecting, it's like unwrapping silver balls and boxes of stringed lights year after year. I can enjoy the same heart-swelling messages of Advent again and again.

I'm glad you are joining me!

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Today's Bible Readings

A few other Advent Resources . . .

An introduction, history and explanation of Advent by Mark Roberts, Senior Director of Laity Lodge, published by Beliefnet.com

A Jesse Tree Advent Devotional Guide by Ann Voskamp

Week 1, Day 1: Seeing the Light

I wasn't ready.

When Thanksgiving ended Thursday night and I wasn't even sleeping in my own bed because I had to get up early for another CT scan at a hospital near my parents' house, I started to panic a little. Advent was just two days away, and I wasn't ready.

It wasn't just that I hadn't bought the candles or finished my Christmas shopping. And really, though I make it my ambition every year to have my Christmas cards stamped and addressed by Thanksgiving, that goal just wasn't in my sights anymore. My whole life felt out of sorts. I have been grieving over my sweet dog and dealing with some uncertain physical pain, and my schedule has been too hectic to even change the sheets on my bed.

Sleeping in my own filth this past week has provided little rest.

So, Friday evening and Saturday morning I began preparing my life for Advent. I started with the sheets, but very quickly I moved on to the laundry, the carpets, the dishes. I stopped after work to buy candles and a small Christmas tree, and I made some last minute orders on Amazon.

As I was running circles around myself making the preparations, however, I realized that these tasks have very little to do with Advent. I will certainly feel better that I got the floors mopped and the candles arranged when a few of my friends stop by tonight to celebrate the first Sunday in Advent. But my heart will still feel empty and soul flat if I don't stop and prepare myself for this season of Expectation.

So I have been praying and singing and sitting quietly. I have read through a few Psalms, and found great comfort in Isaiah 55. I have spent some time in bed the past two mornings just resting in Jesus, both figuratively and literally.

I want this season of expectation to help me see the Light more clearly, not just a light at the end of the tunnel.

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A Prayer for the First Sunday of Advent from The Book of Common Prayer

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of

darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of

this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit

us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come

again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the

dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives

and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and

for ever. Amen.

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Today's Bible Reading

Bread Pudding Days

 

Today, join me over at TheHighCalling.org for a Thanksgiving post with a twist, featuring an unfortunate experience with bread pudding. Let's just say the year I brought bread pudding to Thanksgiving, I had plenty leftover for me.

In case you are still deciding what YOU will make for your Thanksgiving dinner, my CORN pudding is always a crowd pleaser. I'll be making two batches tomorrow for two different dinners. If you'd like to make it too, here's the recipe.

Corn Pudding

1 can whole-kernel corn

1 stick margarine

1/4 c sugar

8 oz sour cream

1 7 1/2 oz pkg Cornbread Mix

1 can cream corn (I sometimes puree a can of whole-kernel corn instead)

2 eggs

Mix together the first 6 ingredients. Add cornbread mix. Pour into casserole dish and bake uncovered for 1 hour at 350 degrees.

Photo by 3liz4. Used under the Creative Commons License.

The Right Place

While Ann and I were on our road trip to see and hear Wendell Berry, we were just outside of the Bloomington area when dusk settled over us and it got downright dark. 

I confessed to Ann right there in the car about how I'm afraid of driving after dark in the fall during deer season, when the hunters have the deer are scattered brained and jumpy. We each shared our strategies for spotting the beady eyes in the night and talked about the deer we and others have hit with our cars.

As my passenger, I'm sure she was relieved when we made it safely to and from Blomington without hitting a single deer.

As we were nearing home and had taken a detour through downtown Indianapolis to avoid some construction traffic, I made another confession. I often drive through a seedy part of town by myself at night to save time. She laughed.

"So you are afraid of deer, but you're not afraid to drive through the rough part of town?"

I laughed, too. It's ironic, really, that a country girl like me has turned out to have a penchant for concrete and convenience. I can't even really stay at my parents' house alone anymore because of all the outside noises that howl and moan.

My whole growing up life I wanted to leave the farm and the country and chase city dreams. I didn't even want to stay in Indiana, so I hightailed it out there. But it didn't take long for me miss the corn and the potholes and waving at my neighbors as they drove by.

When I moved to Indianapolis, I thought I was getting the best of both worlds. I thought I had moved "home" since I was close, just an hour a away. I soon learned, however, that when I stopped somewhere, I stopped short.

Sometimes I think my current life in Indianapolis is not close enough to home. But since I'm here, it's worth giving it a shot. As Wendell Berry said, "If you stop and it doesn’t seem like it’s the right place, stay and see if it can become the right place."

Perhaps I have found the right place after all.

Photo from the US National Archives. No use restrictions.

The Misfortune of an Interesting Life

"I would've never thought I would write an autobiography, frankly. I mean, it wasn't of interest to me. And then I had the misfortune of acquiring an interesting life."

-Salman Rushdie in an interview with Katty Kay, on The Diane Rehm Show

Sometimes, I find my life more interesting than I would choose on my own. And yet, without an interesting life, what would I have to write about?

Over the years, I have written here of lawsuits, family conflict, book rejections, heart break, cancer, and financial problems. There have been posts on the death of friends, the death of pets, and the death of dreams. You have seen me be discouraged, despairing, and despondent.

And yet, an interesting life is not just subject matter, it's spiritual matter. An interesting life has helped me grow and change and become a little bit more like Jesus. I hope.


I am fortunate to have acquired an interesting life.

Ashes to Ashes

Yesterday, I received a voicemail message I had been dreading.

"Ms. Singleton, I wanted to say, again, how sorry I am and to express my sympathy at the loss of Precious. I also wanted to remind you that you requested a private cremation and we have her ashes here for you to pick up."

I felt sick.

Making the decision to euthanize my sweet dog a couple of weeks ago had been heart wrenching. And in that moment, I also had to decide what to do with her remains. Did I want to take her for burial? Did I want her to be cremated? Did I want to keep the ashes?

I couldn't imagine trying to dig a hole to bury her, or if it would even be legal for me to bury her in my back yard. I also didn't think I would be able to handle carrying her body out to the car, emotionally or physically. But I had never thought of cremation. Knowing I needed to make a decision and fast, I just chose cremation and decided I would deal with the cost and consequences of that later.

It is now later, and I have a small blue tin sitting in the living room with the ashes of the dog I loved so much. I still walk into the house and expect her to meet me. Having her remains here does nothing to change the loss. 

So, on Thanksgiving Day, when I leave the house to go celebrate with my family, I will take the little tin along. And sometime that morning, I will walk up to the stand of trees overlooking my parents farm and scatter those ashes in the same spot where my childhood dog, Spanky, is buried.

I will probably cry, I will try to pray, and I will be filled with gratitude yet again that I was able to lovingly return my pet to the one who made her.

Stopping Somewhere

For years, I have returned over and over again to the fictional town of Port William, Kentucky, the setting for many of Wendell Berry's novels and short stories. I have gotten to know the people and landscape through his vivid descriptions, and at times, I could swear I've been there.

But I've never felt more a part of the Port William community than when I sat with Ann just feet away from Wendell Berry on Thursday evening, listening to the stories of Port William straight from the horse's mouth.

He read two unpublished stories from the perspective of Andy Catlett, the linchpin character in his fiction. Though Andy is not featured in every story Berry writes, "his people" are. Andy is introduced in some of the chronologically earlier works as a boy, and so there is plenty of time and space for him to grow and develop through the body of Berry's work as does Port William itself.

As I've always suspected, Berry gave away the farm Thursday night by intimating that when he writes about Andy Catlett, it's mostly autobiographical. This theory of mine which was all but confirmed by the admission of the author would have been confirmed anyway, as I saw the twinkle in Berry's eye and heard the lilt in his voice telling about the young boy wiling away an afternoon chasing a young squirrel up a tree. Berry had been up that tree. He had seen that squirrel.

Berry's nonfiction is about a sense of place as much as his fiction. So it was no surprise that someone asked him about "place" during the question and answer time. How, the young man wanted to know, does a person find a connection to a place when not everyone has the luxury through inheritance of being so historically tied to a geography like the people of Port William, or like Berry himself?

This was obviously not a new question to Berry. And so he answered it by going through the backdoor.

"Today, people seem to be from everywhere and from nowhere," he started. He described the path that many find themselves on, moving from here to there. If you want to develop a sense of place out of that context, he explained then eventually you are going to have to "stop somewhere."

We all laughed. 

"How do you know where to stop?" he asked us, asking himself. A young man had asked him this once. "I said to him, 'How do you know who to marry?' If your contract is serious and generously made, then you will find out if it's where you should have stopped."

The program ended with an impromptu reading of "The Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front," after an audience member's request.  The closing line, "Practice resurrection," was a benediction to us all as we left the lecture hall.

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Wendell Berry was speaking as a Patten Foundation Lecturer at Indiana University this past week in Bloomington. The opportunity to see and hear this hero of mine was accentuated by sitting in the seat behind him during the introductions and by having a chance to meet his dear wife, Tanya, after the program.


Other of my posts about Wendell Berry:
:: A Body and a Place
:: Created to Consume?
:: An Affair of the Art
:: A Sense of Place
:: Smallness of Scale as I See It
:: Think Globally, Act Locally
:: Saving Buttons
:: The Way of Ignorance
:: A New Friend
:: Called to Work
:: The Shalom of Work

The Failure of Trying to Forget

Holding my dog as she died in my arms was one of the most painful experiences of my life. As much as I loved Precious, I was still surprised by how painful the experience of losing her has been. It still hurts, in fact.

My first response to the intense pain was to try to get rid of it. I rashly committed in my heart that I would never have another dog if there was even a chance that I would have to experience this pain again. I went back to work that day to try to get my mind off of it. I told people at work that I didn't want to talk about Precious because it was just too hard. That evening, when I got home and felt the pain even more acutely, I quickly started gathering up her things so I wouldn't constantly be reminded of her. And experience more pain.

But even as I was putting away collars and leashes, throwing out old medicines and food, and putting blankets and pillows in the big blue crate headed for the garage, I realized that I was setting myself up for failure. Sure, I might not feel the pain as much, but I also wouldn't get to experience the joy. They go together.

So, even though I knew I couldn't stay at the house by myself that first weekend, I went back to the garage and pulled out a couple of Precious' toys that I could leave out and see regularly once I got back home on Sunday. It would hurt, but it would also remind me of the joy.

The loss is commensurate with the gain. Only in my grief could I see how much I had.

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Thank you to all of you for comments and kindnesses to me in this grief. I had never had a dog like Precious, never had my own pet as an adult, never had an indoor dog who became so much a part of my life. So this grief has been surprising even to me.

For some of you, reading about the grief over a dog feels foreign, excessive. For others of you, reading these essays brings back your own pain. I won't always write about Precious and her passing, but for a few days, this has been on my heart so exclusively, and writing is how I deal with things. Thanks for hanging in there with me on this.

The picture above is a small memorial I made above to remember Precious. The text on the left is the prayer I wrote for her that was featured on this blog on November 5. This frame, with her collar and toy attached, sits in my living room, evoking pain and joy every time I look at it.

New Normal

There's a sticky spot on my kitchen floor that grabs at my socks every time I walk over it. I think I spilled pineapple juice there last night, and though I tried to clean it up, it's obvious I didn't do a very good job. I haven't had to clean up many spills like that for the past six years. Precious was always on the job.

I always had a fair amount of hair and dirt and mud tracked in from the back yard, though. Friday, when I came home sobbing and began gathering things and cleaning up, I swept a large pile of black hair with gratitude. It's been five days, and my floors are still mostly clean. Except for the pineapple juice.

My house is also eerily quiet. No longer is there a sweet face to say good morning or good night to. The barks which always alerted me to someone in the driveway or someone at the door are replaced by silence, then surprise. There is no metal on metal from her tag and collar colliding as she shakes. No disgusting sounds of licking as she cleans herself, or sweet sounds of snoring as she sleeps next to me.

When I came home yesterday, my eyes went directly to the front window, where normally I would see a black nose poking out through the blinds. I put my knee out when I opened the door to the house to keep her from escaping, but she wasn't there. My morning and evening routines which involved food and water and walks and bathroom trips outside for Precious are suddenly different. Even awkward. I make circles around the house not knowing what to do next, or even first.

My dad told me last night that he never thought I would be the type to get emotionally attached to a dog. Apparently as a child, my appreciation for dogs was more limited, more accurately described as, "Eewww, gross." And I can't exactly remember when fur, wet noses, and slopply licks became appealing to me.

But they did. And now, I see how a dog can come into a life with such innocence and trust, and just being herself could help me see myself in a whole new way. I am a dog person who is grieving the loss of a very special friend.

And part of that process will most likely lead me to another dog. Not because Precious didn't mean much to me. But because she meant so very, very much that she has left me with something missing in my life.

More than a Cliche

I smiled to myself as I walked out of my favorite bagel shop with only a coffee in hand and saw my vehicle. There was my Saturn Vue, complete with a Christian school magnet adorning the back hatch. Commuter mug, SUV, private school. If you saw me hop in the car and speed off to work, you would assume I was the epitome of a suburban soccer mom who has it all.

Except you would be totally wrong. {continued . . .}

Join me today as I guest post over at {in}courage. And while you are there, check out the beautiful content and lovely opportunities that are going on at the beach house.

Gratitude for Precious (a prayer in her last moments)

Father God,

I praise You because You are the Creator of all living things and because Your love for the those that You have made far exceeds my feeble affections. So, thank you, Father, that you made and love Precious.

Thank you that she brought You glory by being fully what You made her to be.

Thank you that she was curious, loyal, playful, obedient, generous with her affection, protective, and gentle.

Thank you that she loved to run and jump, sniff and bark, and eat whatever passed under her nose.

Thank you that you gave her to me and my family and friends for more than seven years, and now we give her back to you in trust and for your glory.

Amen.

Puppy Love

Six and a half years ago, Precious came to live with me. She is a black Labrador Retriever that my brother and his family rescued from a shelter. After a year of being part of their family, a cross-country move made it impossible for them to keep her, so she came to live with me. That was May 2004.

Though I lived in a small one-bedroom apartment, I thought I was up for an energetic Lab because I lived just a couple of blocks from the Monon Trail, a busy Indianapolis greenway, where bicyclists, joggers, and dog walkers abound. I romantically pictured Precious and I logging many miles happily walking the trail, but on the first day I took her out, she got so excited at the sight of another dog that she took off running and pulled me down on the ground. In front of everyone. 

I quickly jumped up, shook off concerned citizens, and promptly headed home. We had a lot of work to do before we could walk on the Monon again.

Precious lived with me in two different apartments, enduring long leash walks on paved sidewalks just to do her business. When she had opportunities to visit my parents' farm and run off-leash in their big yard, she was in heaven. She chased cats, barked bravely from the car at the cows but wouldn't go near them in person, and always found her way out to the barn where there was all kinds of stuff to sniff and eat that was actually off limits.

When we finally moved to our first house, Precious' inner watch dog emerged. With three entrances and windows on all sides, she spent the first few nights in her new home pacing and finding a way to watch all the doors at the same time. Eventually, she began sleeping next to my bed, but if ever there was an overnight guest, she would sleep in the hallway between the two bedrooms and between us and the doors to outside. She was extremely protective.

When Precious came to me, she was already house broken and never even tried getting on the furniture. She did like to eat things, though. Occasionally, I would come home to find something missing, or a pile of vomit containing something I never knew was missing. She snatched eggs and apples, ate most of a blanket once, and consumed the first few chapters of Genesis out of a leather-covered Bible. Her most memorable meal was a pair of gardening gloves, which I didn't even know were missing until they showed up in one of the piles.

Speaking of eating, Precious' one joy in life is food. She loves food of all kinds: dog food, of course, but also any scrap of anything that might fall from the counter while I am cooking. I started out never feeding her people food, but eventually those pitiful eyes secured pieces of toast or chunks of muffin directly from the table. It was a horrible habit that led to all kinds of begging, but it made her so wonderfully happy. Her favorite snack was popcorn. Though she was glad to eat from my hand or from the floor, the whole experience was improved for her when she could catch it flying through the air with her teeth.

Through the years, I always resisted being one of "those" people who slept with their dog. For one thing, Precious is a big shedder, and the thought of handfuls of black hair in my bed gave me the heebie jeebies. For another thing, she is a dog.

As Precious grew older, however, she got bolder about jumping up onto the bed. First, she started doing it when I wasn't home. Then, one night during a thunderstorm (which she hates), she jumped right on the bed and curled into the blankets like she owned the place. I was too tired to fight with her, so I just curled up and went back to sleep myself. What a mistake.

Over the past couple of years, Precious and I have gone back and forth over whether she gets to sleep in my bed or not. I bought her her own bed to put right next to mine, but she was no dummy. It's a lot colder down there at night. Slowly, I have come to realize that I am one of "those" people. 

I am one of those people in the world that let a dog really get into my heart.

That's why this evening, I am consumed by a great sadness as I spend my last evening with Precious. I've known something was wrong with Precious for a few weeks now. It started when she began to eat her dinner slowly. And eventually, she wouldn't eat at all. A couple of trips to the vet indicated an infection, and after a few days on an antibiotic, she seemed to be perking up. But there have been many dips, too. And over the past few days she has refused to eat anything. When I visited a new vet today, a quick examination revealed the worst.

I don't know how I am possibly going to walk her into that vet clinic again tomorrow knowing what awaits her. I don't know how I am going to come home and not find her waiting at the door for me. I don't know how I am going to gather up all her blankets and bones, bag up all the old dog food and medicines, and vacuum up all the dog hair. I don't know how I am going to sleep at night without Precious on watch.

But I do know that tonight I am going to lay on the floor with Precious. I am going to pet her and sing to her and tell her what a good dog she has been. And I am going to be so thankful that Jesus gave me a dog like Precious to fill a little empty spot in my heart.

Lessons Learned Begging for Candy

I learned a lot last night, trick-or-treating with my buddies, Alex and Jensen, and their friends Alesandro and Isaac.

For instance, costumes with too many accessories can hold a guy back from really collecting the goods. Jensen's light saber and Isaac's ninja knives nearly cost them a Snickers or two as they had to be adjusted and readjusted. Eventually, the parents ended up holding some of the weaponry.

I also discovered that people who leave their outside light on (the international welcome signal for trick-or-treaters) when they go OUT on Halloween night are no treat. In fact, on more than one occasion I heard, "They must be tricking us," as the boys walked away empty handed from an empty house.

But if you want all the kids to like you and shout things like, "This is the GOOD stuff!" to their parents, then be really generous. An assortment of items tied up neatly in a goody bag seemed to really win big favor.

The most important lesson I learned, however, is that children are far more likely to recognize Ninjas, Jedis, or pop stars than they are one of the more mythical creatures in out nation's history: the American farmer. I showed up with a straw hat and bib overalls and nobody could guess who I was!

Both of the boys scored big last night, however. And it was no surprise that when their mom said they could each have two treats before bed, they both chose the biggest ones. They're no fools!

Next year, I think I'm going to dress up as a dentist. That will REALLY stump them!