Good-Bye, Friend

The first rays of sunlight filtered through sheer curtains into our room, and I opened my eyes.  Immediately feeling the hollow inside, I remembered today I must make the call.  This impending task to do made it so difficult to rise.  I'd been up with him in the night...he had stood panting, panicked, in pain.  His eyes had that wild "help me" look which all pet owners who have seen their beloveds to the end would recognize.  Nothing I could do would bring comfort any longer; it was just....time.

Still feeling somewhat foreign in this Southern town, I wondered who to call.  This isn't the type of veterinary appointment in which you want to "try out" a new place.  It's the type of heart-wrenching appointment that you don't want to make at all, but if it needs to be made, you want it to be with friends. 

 

Hoping for the best, I called one of two nearest places.  It had seemed quaint and simple as I drove by on other days.  However, my experience on the phone with them was anything but what I was hoping for, to put it kindly.  Hanging up, I called the next-nearest place...a place I'd also seen numerous times.  It had seemed a little too flashy from the outside, considering our needs at the moment, but I called anyway.  The receptionist was kind, and they could see us at 2:30.  Not much time to make last memories, but what would be enough?

 

 

As the appointed time approached, Tony's strong arms scooped up our Chuggie Chugiak, our "Sits With a Purpose", the dog who had been so present and faithful to us for the last nearly 17 years.  He was a musher's cast-away, an unwanted pup, which I found along with his sister under rickety, wooden, rural post office steps, just a few weeks after moving to Alaska.  We wanted him, and we moved across town in order to keep him.  

 

Chuggie was an awkward, peaceful, and comical creature.  He seemed to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and in the way.  He would have the entire run of the house, yet step in the dirt pile I just swept up.  He was the type of dog that brought a smile or even a chuckle on the worst of days.  He taught us that we shouldn't take ourselves too seriously.  Even now I smile as I think of how I could make it through feeding time during the muddiest day of break-up season, and just before I left the kennel, he would be the one out of five dogs to affectionately plop the muddiest paw directly on my clothes.  He taught us that things don't have to be perfect, and it's pointless to try to make them that way.  He taught us to live and love freely, even if it gets you a bit dirty.

Chuggie lived for even a glimpse of us, all day long, every day.  At any given time, he was pining away for us at his "post", staring at the house window, or down the driveway.  In the dog yard, he tripped us up trying to be as close as possible to us at all times.  If I were to stand still, he would immediately sit down, directly in front of me, staring up at me.  The moment eye contact was made, he dramatically threw himself down, exposing his belly, waiting for a nice rub.

One by one, all of his dog buddies passed away.  He grieved every death by moping and barking incessantly, day and night, for days and nights on end.  He would not eat nor sleep.  With the passing of his litter mate sister a year and a half ago, Chuggie was the last remaining member of the pack.  He has been a constant in our family life, and part of what makes home, "home", whether it be a house  we own, or rent, or a camper driven across two countries.  

In Tony's arms, on this bright, warm, spring Tuesday, Chuggie did not struggle.  Hind legs, which had once been so strong and pulled us miles and miles on dogsled and skis, hung limply down his master's side.  He trusted those arms to hold him tight, to have his best interest at heart, to do what was best.  Observing his trust, I realized that even on this day, there were lessons still to be learned from this dog.  You see, there are  Strong Arms that hold me also and have held me continuously for forty years, yet I still fight against them at times.  For half my lifetime, I didn't realize those Arms were there, holding.  For the other half of my lifetime, I have known it, received it, and rejoiced in it.  Even still, I sometimes struggle and flail around, not always trusting.

Our drive to the new and unknown veterinary clinic was a nearly silent one.  It was also much too short of a drive.

Outdoors in the sunshine, with the help of compassionate and skilled hands, we loved our dog the last way that we could.  And at a time when we desperately needed a piece of home, we were unbelievably blessed with it.

Our vet was from Anchorage. 

Yeah, of all the clinics in Maryville, Tennessee, the one we chose was owned by an Alaskan. Upon arrival, we felt the ambiance of "home," that familiar, laid-back, pay-us-later, Pacific Northwest feel.  Still, we never would have guessed that our vet would tell us she was from Anchorage. 

Let me tell you, friends:  the One Whose Arms Hold Me?  He cares about the things we care about about.  As I looked upon the huge Alaska map displayed in the waiting area, I realized once again, that this God who placed the capacity to love in our hearts, even to crazy-love furry creatures, passionately loves us and cares about our details.

When Irritation Leads to Peace

The vibrant colors have given way to muted shades of gold, copper, and brown.  It's still autumn, but winter is knocking gently on our door. 

It's a completely new experience for us.  For the last sixteen years, we saw golden leaves beginning in August, which waxed quickly before waning just as fast with a sucker-punch from winter.  That is fall in Alaska, and we would have been "punched" several weeks ago.  Instead, we're in the throes of fall in Tennessee.  Both are so different; both are so beautiful.  Seasons of change.

We have seasons in life as well.  Some come softly and linger, while some of them hit us with the full-force of a Northwest gale and refuse to quit.  But unlike the cycle of seasons, life seasons are often not so easily predicted. 

It's nice when we can expect what to expect, but to have everything wrapped up so neatly doesn't leave much room for unexpected blessings, does it?  I love such surprises, so living life unwrapped, so to speak, is appealing to me for that reason.  However, what about the "unwrapped" seasons that go on with no apparent answers, with no obvious surprise? 

Our family has been through a season of tremendous change during this past year.  It's been a crazy combination of exhilaration, heartbreak, joy, hope, and dashed expectations.  And though we are settled, we remain in limbo. 

I feel time ticking, and I am full of questions.  Where do we go from here?  Will these healings be complete?  What about other journeys you've called us on?  Adoption process at a stand-still...what about that?  God whispers to me in the midst of all my questions.  He gives an answer which at first seems so irritating.  "Be still and know that I am God." 

Be still?  Are you serious?  "Yes," he whispers again.  And then I am reminded of all the knowns in the midst of the unknowns.  The knowns are the things that have happened already.  They are also the things that are true.  So many of them are things to be thankful for. 

Where do we go from here?  We continue to listen to His voice to lead us, and we thank Him for bringing us to where we are.  We live well, and enjoy all the fullness and beauty that the days hold--right here.

Will the healings be complete?  We don't know, but we thank Him for taking the seizures away from a son, and for providing a diagnosis and plan that has evaded me for the last two years, and for giving us access to the best eye doctor in the U.S. for another son.

What about the adoption process we began in 2010 that has gone seemingly nowhere?  I have no answer for that either, whether it is meant to come to fruition or was a test of obedience.  But we thank Him for increasing our faith and for the miracles He has worked along the way.

What additional questions would you add here?  What are the answers that evade you in this season you are in?  I most likely wouldn't have your answers, but I can point you to the One that has them.  I can almost guarantee that if you listen closely, you'll hear Him whispering, "Be still..."  It's irritating at first, but that's ok.  God is not threatened by our irritation.  What's even more awesome than that, is that when we choose to be still even though we don't like it, suddenly, there is room for us to give thanks.  We give thanks in the midst of our questions, for the knowns and you know what?  An unexpected blessing occurs afterall.  We realize it's ok to not have the answers.  We are filled with joy as we focus on the giving thanks.  There's so much to give thanks for, and we are filled with peace.

Thanks.  Peace.  Joy.  Those are good things to be had in any season.  

What I've Learned: day 31

This post marks the end of this series.  In reflection upon all the hours spent thinking and writing and photographing and uploading, and uploading and uploading, what have I learned?  For one thing, I've learned this is a pretty awesome place to live.

There are ample opportunities for adventure and travel.  There is beauty, so much beauty, in the form of rolling hills and mountain landscapes, flowing rivers and wildflowers, giant, ancient trees and meandering country roads and of land being worked by the plow.  It is land teeming with life in all forms.  It is rich in history, and so much is accessible in terms of bringing that history to life.  We have access to rich culture in cities, while peaceably living country life, and can easily trek to the seashores.

We are living this, and we're so thankful, yet truth be told, I still desperately miss Alaska.  It is home to me, to my family, in all it's grandeur and quirkiness and freezingness.  Is that even a word?

I chose the subject for this 31 day blogging challenge, based on the homesickness I am experiencing.  Driving home one day from a swim at Maryville College, I marveled at the fact it was mid-September, and I was driving home while windows down and sunshine streaming in dried my hair.  For me, that was incredible, and I began to think about all the other things we could experience because we are here.  As thankfulness began to well up in my heart, the homesickness lessened.  It's difficult to feel wistful or sad when you concentrate on just giving thanks for the now.  It's been good for me, as I truly have grown to better appreciate the now.  Still I find my mind wandering to the "what next?" and I do not know the answer to that.  You know what?  It's ok that I don't know the answer to that.  I know the One who does know the answer to that.  He knows what brought us here.  He knows what He's accomplishing in us here.  In short, He knows our path, and somehow that needs to be, and in fact is, enough.

Just knowing that He knows is enough.

This month of writing has been good for me, as it's caused me to dwell upon this every day: there's so much to love here.  As much richness as we enjoy, however, nothing replaces the fact that the things dearest to us, our family, our deep friendships, those things are thousands and thousands of miles away.  Familiarity.  Friendships which have weathered over a decade.  The babies that were born and have been raised up alongside our own babies.  All so far away.  It takes years and years to put down those sort of roots, and we've felt the necessity of leaving it all behind, for now anyway.  How can I reconcile these truths?

Sometimes what you love is not what is good for you in a certain season.  Sometimes what we need is to be uncomfortable.  Sometimes, God calls us out of the familiarity of Ur, so to speak, and we are called to venture out of our comfort zones.

"Now the LORD said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you." Genesis 12:1

To ignore the call would be torment to our hearts.  There would always be the wondering.  "What if?"

So we chose to answer  by stepping out.  We won't need to wonder "What if?" and there is much peace in that.  We'll continue to enjoy all that is here, right now.  We'll continue to grow, work on healing that needs to take place, make new friendships, maintain old friendships, minister to those He puts in our path, and chart this new course.  And all the while, we'll do our best to keep hearts focused on the Captain, and keep ears open for His call for what's next.  Who knows?  Maybe I'll be writing about that next October.

 For a complete listing of posts in this series, click here.

Mosquitoes: day 24

Let me tell you something about mosquitoes in East Tennessee.  Essentially there are none.
 

(insert wild, raucous clapping and hooting)

After fighting through clouds of those little suckers for as long as I can remember, it's a welcome relief.  Now, if you ask any local around here, they will adamantly reply, "YES we DO have mosquitoes!"  Then they will expound with a few statements which essentially tell us we don't know what we're talking about.  They probably will punctuate that with a "bless your heart".  This  will remove any doubt we had about being called clueless earlier.

But the thing is, of the multitude of things we really are clueless about regarding the South, the lack of mosquitoes is not one of them.  Alaskans know mosquitoes.  We're talking clouds of mosquitoes, at times so thick you can't breathe without them going up your nose.  We have looked out the window to see some sort of black growth on our dogs' muzzles.  Upon inspection, the "growths" were masses of blood-filled mosquitoes.  We've seen moose go crazy, trying to get away from the mosquitoes, to no avail.  There were summers when the mosquitoes were so bad, the boys were just covered with bites.  The all-time record has to have been after a weekend with Grandmom & Grandpa at their Montana Creek cabin.  We counted 100 (yes, that's two zeros) on one boy before quitting counting.  Head nets, bug dope, and wild mosquito-slap dances are just a part of regular life  in The Last Frontier. 

So about East Tennessee?  You can bless my heart as many times as you wish, but this place essentially has no mosquitoes.  Which brings up the question, why?  In a warm, moist climate such as this, we really expected a lot of them.  We assumed, after being here for a couple weeks, that the county must have sprayed for them.  Of course they would need to spray for them...to avoid Malaria, right? 

(insert a "bless your heart") 

Upon asking a neighbor about this, she smiled slightly, then regained her composure and sweetly informed me that no, the county does not spray for mosquitoes.  Apparently they just don't seem to thrive down here, though any East Tennessean will disagree.  Whatever the case, we'll just enjoy being mosquito-free.

For other posts in this series, click here.

Come On Down: day 19

We love to have our doors open to family and friends, whether we've known and loved each other forever or only for a short while.  Today, we had our first visitors to this home.  Both are relatively new friends, but cherished just the same.  One is from Knoxville, one is from Alaska. 

It's people that make a house a home.  It's the people who live there, yes, but nothing says "home" better than being able to swing open doors for friends.  Moving from Alaska to the South, this is a big deal to us, and something we relish.  Because, you see, Alaskans looooove to go South on vacations.  Furthermore, our family will looooove to be that Southern destination for anyone who is wanting to thaw out a little.

We've got plenty of sunshine, and plenty of space for marshmallow shooter contests.

So if you aren't one of the 4 families we're eagerly expecting, with plans to come visit soon, 

we hope you'll get crackin', grab your marshmallow shooters, get tickets, and come on down.

Click here for other posts in this series.

Swimming in Sunshine: day 17

 Sitting on hay bales with my boys this afternoon, surrounding a blacksmith hard at work at the Foothills Fall Festival, I met a new friend.  Upon sitting down, I was so entranced with the glowing metal being sculpted before me, I didn't even notice this woman and her son sitting beside us.  Suddenly, I heard words which broke the temporary spell I was under, "Are you from Alaska?"

"Why yes," I answered, while simultaneously trying to figure out what let the cat out of the bag.  Was it a son in shorts with wool socks?  Me in Chacos despite the locals have coats on today?  Our lack of fashion sense in general and the fact we don't give a hoot about it?

Reading my mind, and nodding toward our third son, Chrissy remarked, "His hat."  Ahh, yes.  "Alaska Grown".  A sure give-away.

We began talking, and this kind woman revealed she was from Eagle River.  As in, Eagle River which is a 40-minute drive from our hometown in Alaska.  That's all it took for us to become friends.  We started discussing what brought each of us down to this neck of the woods. We talked about the mountains and specific hikes we miss, and the hazards of the Eagle River Hill during the Anchorage commute.  We talked all things familiar.  Her husband joined in, and at some point, one of them mentioned something which may seem unremarkable to most.  "There are great pools here, like, outdoor pools.  You know, where you can swim outside--in the sun."  We were all nodding with serious faces, because we know the significance of that.  Gary went on to describe the rivers here, and how you can swim in them.  More nodding of heads.  More serious expressions.  Yes, we get this.

Our boys swam in a lake for the first time the summer before this.  That was our last full summer in Alaska, and it was a record-breaker for heat.   We had a wonderful time, swimming in three different lakes over the warm part of the summer.  We didn't stay in the water long, and our lips were sort of blue afterward, but we swam outside in the sunshine. 

Throughout our travels this summer, we swam day in and out.  For the first time, the boys experienced the joy of jumping into cool water on a hot summer day.  When we arrived in Tennessee during the hottest time of the year, we lived to jump in the campground's pool each day for that sweet relief.  This was great, until August arrived, we were moved into our rental home, and the public pools closed for the year.  We were a bunch of Alaska-shaped puddles on the floor, wondering where anyone could get some relief.  Overhearing our lamentations regarding this,  a Target cashier said, "Oh Honey, don't you know about the Y?" 

The "Y", where the road splits and you go on to Cades Cove or Gatlinburg.  There's a great section of Little River full of lovely rocks and swiftly flowing water, as well as some wonderful swimming holes.  We know about it now, and we love that we're only 20 minutes from it.  It reminds me a bit of our beloved Little Su in Alaska, except, as our new Eagle River transplant friends pointed out today, "you can swim in it." 

 Little River doesn't hold my heart like the Little Su, and I cannot imagine it ever will, but for this homesick Alaska Girl, it is something to love about the South.

 

More post in this series available here.

Next Best to Having My Own: day 16

In autumn, there are few places more idyllic than an apple orchard, and I've always dreamed of having one.  One of the first things I did when we built our house in Alaska was purchase baby apple trees.  We dug deep holes, enriched the soil with bone meal and all sorts of recommended goodies, then replaced the soil along with copious amounts of water and planted those little trees.   I had visions of the trees growing along with the children, and of all the lovely fruit the trees would yield.  I hauled buckets of compost tea to water them with.  I dutifully picked the blossoms off every tree the first and second years, though it took every ounce of my will power to do so.  "Your trees will never be good producers if you don't pick off the blossoms the first two years." the greenhouse lady told me.  "They need time for the root systems to become established."   Oh but I was anxious to start picking!  The following year, the trees blossomed once again, though not as much, and two little apples began to grow.  One got eaten by something when it was about the size of a large cherry.  The other was approaching the size of the smallest "schoolboy" apple you've seen, and then it rotted.

The following year, the trees did not blossom at all.  We decided to move a couple of them against a fence, where we thought they'd get more sun.  We carefully transplanted them, and once again we fortified the soil with all sorts of good stuff.  There they sat for a few years.  They didn't die, but they certainly didn't thrive.  A few years later, we moved them again.  I concocted chicken wire coverings to protect them over the winter from moose in this new location.  I watered them faithfully and fertilized them with fish fertilizer and bone meal.  They leafed out beautifully the following summer, but still didn't blossom.  One day upon returning from town, we noticed the crowns were bit off and bedraggled.  A moose had eaten them for his lunch salad, and he may as well have swallowed my hopes of my little orchard as well.  At that point, those pitiful trees had been in our yard for nearly 13 years.  Unless the new owner has removed them, they are still there today.

So despite my romantic dreams, this is my history with growing apples.  I share this just to give you some background--fruit trees are a big deal to me, and I am amazed when anyone can get them to grow and thrive and produce.  Which brings me to the subject at hand, which is, East Tennessee is amazing for growing apples.

On a lovely day this early fall, we took a drive up through the Smokies and into the countryside to a popular orchard.  We passed three or four others on the way there.

 

 The orchards here are large and grow many varieties of apples. They ripen at different times, which make the apple-picking season very lengthy.

 

There is nothing like the smell and the taste of fresh-from-the-tree apples...

....except maybe the smell of those apples cooking and being made into applesauce in your own little kitchen.

Applesauce is a staple in this family, and after having canned our own, we're wrecked from buying Tree Top forever.

A couple more things to love about this lovely orchard in the South?  It's a general produce market, full of wonderful melons, tomatoes, squash, and pumpkins of all shapes and sizes. 

And the prices...ohhhh the prices.  $20 a bushel, Baby.  A bushel is one of the giant baskets pictured below.  That's a lot of apples for $20.  After regularly paying $2.79 per pound in Alaska for the one to three different varieties of organic apples available, this is something to love. 

They also have shelves and shelves full of preserves of all kinds, as well as our new friend here.

Very good, indeed.  Good to the last drop, in fact.

 More things for Alaska Girls to love about the South are a click away.

Do It Yourself: day 15

Drive around rural Alaska, and one thing will become very apparent.  They like to do it "their way".  Spray foam for chinking between logs, a plywood lean-to for an addition onto a trailer home, a scissors lift as a make-shift elevator for a two-story, self-built home, and a myriad of uses for duct tape.  We've seen all these and many other amazing, interesting  buildings and ideas for problem solving.  And now, upon moving to the South, we've found that East Tennesseans are somewhat akin to Alaskans, in that they too like to do it themselves.  I can think of no better example of this than the treehouse.  This is no ordinary treehouse.

This, my friends, is a full seven stories of patchwork, woodwork, handyman paradise.  It is also something straight out of a Dr. Seuss book.

You concur?  Built in and around a gigantic Oak tree, it is a maze of random rooms, corridors, staircases, ladders, and decks.  It's focal point however, must probably be this cathedral.

As you can imagine, these photos do not do this place justice.  I have never seen anything remotely like it, and probably never will see anything like it again, as I most likely wouldn't set a foot back in this place as it continues to age.  It's not...exactly....to code....if you get my drift.

 It is both beautiful and creepy.

Now picture ropes hanging from the top of this architectural wonder.  Imagine those ropes connecting to a full-size, padded chair.  The swing of all swings that would be, and indeed exists, on this treehouse.  I've got a great video of it, which I'd love to share, but seeing as uploading these few photos has taken me two hours, I don't think I'll go for sharing the video tonight.  Because internet service is not something to love about the South, but that's not what this post or series is about.

I kid you not, you can feel the ever-so-slightly swaying of the mighty Oak Tree foundation at the top of this lookout tower.  It feels just as a tree looks when it gives way to a breeze.  Bizarre.  Unusual.  But this treehouse is something any Alaskan do-it-yourselfer can appreciate.

Full listing of posts in this series is available here.

Rumblings: day 14

One thing I missed  during our 16 years in Alaska, was thunderstorms.  Oh we had an occasional storm, one per year perhaps.  Rarely were those thunderstorms very impressive, but I would relish them nonetheless.  Missing the thunderous display we remembered from our childhoods in the Midwest, my husband and I would strain our ears to hear.  "Shh! listen!" we'd tell our sons, and just maybe we'd hear a distant rumbling. 

There's something about thunderstorms which evokes a sense of  mystery, awe, and thankfulness in my heart.  They remind me that there is so much that is so much bigger than me.  When a thunderous, BOOM shakes the house and electricity streaks through the sky, lighting up the night, I'm reminded of how mighty our God is. 

 The South has thrilling thunderstorms, and lots of them, providing ample opportunity to light candles, put the tea kettle on, and snuggle in for the show.  We've had several such cozy afternoons and evenings together, staring wide-eyed out the window as the thunder crashes and thrashes and reverberates.

Some storms cause very dramatic displays.  The sky is black with churning, angry clouds.  Rain comes down in torrents, creating a liquid curtain as it runs off the eaves.   The sound can be deafening.  We've also had plenty of nights when the storms are gentler, coming in overnight. We wake and then drift back to sleep with smiles, feeling safe and secure inside.  

Whether it's a violent display or a softer show, there is unmistakeable beauty and power in a thunderstorm.  It's something to be enjoyed, as long as one is tucked safely inside.  It's also useful in refilling our hearts with awe and reverence, because as mighty as these storms may be, they are only a creation, fashioned by a truly magnificent, Mighty Hand.

For a complete listing of posts in this series, click here.

Life After Fireflies: day 13

Now that I know what life is like with fireflies, I will never be able to forget.  No matter where I find myself,

for the remainder of my life,
if those dainty beauties are missing,
I will know it,
and miss them.

We noticed our first fireflies in Effingham, Illinois, as we traveled this past summer all the way from the wilds of our beloved Alaska.  It's difficult leaving behind that rugged grandeur, and moving into tame and civilized society, if you will.  Everyone has their art, and words are mine, but I am at a complete loss to express the emotional impact which has resulted from this transition.  Never would I have guessed that something so tiny, an insect nonetheless, would be such a balm to my soul. 

Our family's first encounter with fireflies was fun and exciting.  That's it, just fun.  And exciting.  We caught them, and made a lantern-of-sorts as a centerpiece for our picnic table supper.  And I say "our family's first encounter", because having been born and grown in the Midwest, I've seen them before.  But I have never seen them as I see them now.

As we continued south, their numbers increased, and the regularity at which we'd see them.  Arriving at our first temporary home in Tennessee, a country campground near a misty river, we began to notice that the fireflies would begin to light at dusk, every evening.  Upon camping beside a meadow which separated us from the river, the effect was nothing short of magical.

 

Indeed I felt as though we'd stepped into the scene of a fantastic fairytale, as the entire meadow filled with fireflies, the darkness grew, and the moon rose.  Tiny, tantalizing, fantastical lights blinked all along the ground and high up in the towering tree tops, above the river, near, and far.  Everywhere.  Our eyes gazed and soaked them in.  Each little glow, a continuous show.

We moved into our rental home on the eve of August.  There are yards and a large, grassy field surrounding our home, along with towering, mature trees of various types.  It's a spectacular backdrop for the evening light show.  We strain to see each one, to truly see it, but they light and extinguish, so very quickly.  I want to catch the next one, to be looking right where it begins because the ending will be so instantaneous.  The beauty is too much.  I just cannot soak it in enough.

Through the remainder of summer, I looked forward to dusk every day.
Every
day,
no matter what that day held, the amount of work, the stresses of logistics and the emotional aspects of such a major transition, I looked forward to the upcoming magic of dusk, when  I could step out into the backyard and soak in the wonderland.  The fireflies became to me in Tennessee, what the mountains are and will forever be to me in Alaska.  The beauty of creation of a Loving Father, who cares to delight us with such magnificent details.  

More posts in this series are available here.