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.

Crazy Love

Few will read this post, and even fewer will understand it.  It's ok, though, because this post really is just for me.  A means to let my fingers fly and spell out the thoughts swirling within my mind and heart.

There was a time, around five years ago, when He began to nudge our hearts.  "There are so many, without," He said.  "You could do something about that," He said.  What began as a little spark, He fanned gently into a flame.  That flame fanned into a fire, until we were left with a choice: to shrink back due to the enormity and impossibility of the task, or to walk forward in obedience into the impossible dream of becoming an adoptive family.  We decided to leap.  We didn't want anything left on the table...we didn't want to look back and say, "We should have...why didn't we."

So, with excitement and still a little trepidation in our hearts, we dove into all the research and paperwork and question marks.  Paid fees, both monetary and emotional.  Collected and filled our house with junk to be sold for treasure, to help bring our treasure home.  Set up sales and sat outside for days in the hot sunshine and in the cold rain.  Watched miracles happen in wads of bills, wet and clean, being pulled out of the washing machine from seemingly nowhere.  Cash stuffed in glove compartment, the exact amount to make up for a disappointing payout from sold jewelry.  My body racked with unknown illness, and unable to continue with fundraising, complete strangers came to us and handed us money.  Friends showed up randomly on doorstep, with encouragement and checks for obscene amounts.  Always, the fees were covered when they were due.

All the while, while living and loving and growing our family at home, I chronicled the journey, wrote love notes to our unknown child whom we knew was out there....somewhere.  Then suddenly, it all stopped.  We waited and watched and waited some more.  Waited for the direction.  Waited to see how He would cover the next fee...but He never did...because the fee never came due.  Everything became a standstill.  We watched others realize the fruition of their call.  We hung on to our shred of hope that things would work out for us the way we'd hoped, too.

I remember the day she stopped by our home.  She was picking up a box of junk to be turned into treasure to bring her own little treasures home.  Our conversation turned from the mundane and polite, to the deeper things in life.  I expressed my sadness and frustration over seemingly living in a stand still.  Feeling a sense like we had life on-hold for something...but that something didn't appear to be anywhere in sight.  Meanwhile, we felt tight...stifled...needing to grow in so many ways...so expectant.  "You must find it hard to dream anymore," she said, as my eyes filled with tears at the realization of the truth of what she said.  She was so correct.  It was just so hard to dream anymore.

Months turned into years, and He began to move in our hearts again, though not in a way we had expected.  "Because everything is standing still," He said, it's time for you to move.  This time, He was calling us to m-o-v-e.  Once again faced with a choice: to walk forward in obedience, or to let fear paralyze us.  Once again, we knew we didn't want anything left on the table.  We didn't want to look back and say, "What if we would've...really, we should have."

So here we sit, out of Ur, and away from our loved ones and places.  Out of Ur, but not yet in our Promised Land, this is a difficult place to be.

Today we take down our Christmas tree.  Just a tree, but this particular year it's symbolic of so much more for us.  A Christmas out of Ur, and yet it felt like home with our family here with us.  Time spent cherishing and celebrating, it is now time to take down the tree.  It's time to move forward in obedience and with grace and with courage, even though at times we don't feel like it.  We're not home here, even though this is where He called us to go.  Somewhere, there's home, but we do not yet know where that is.  Again, He's calling us out.  Why does He think we need so much practice with this obedience?  It creates an uncertain and uncomfortable feeling, yet there's hopeful expectation at the knowing that all His ways are good.

I've felt this way before, and indeed continue to feel this way with regard to our adoption process.  We heard the call.  We made the choice.  We made the move.  We experienced miracles.  But we did not (yet?) reach the Promised Land.  It's crazy.  This crazy love which keeps us moving forward, pursuing what He has for us, believing in something we cannot see. 

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.

Odds & Ends, aka The Longest, Most Rambling Post Ever: day 30

Tonight, the 30th day of this series, I admit to be scraping the bottom of the barrel a bit.  I've kept a tattered old notebook handy this past month, on which I scribble my ideas for posts and then strike off when I use them.  Some things I thought were undeserving of their own post; other ideas lack the photos to go with, simply because I haven't had the time.  So tonight, I'll highlight these humble things to love about the South.

Southern Magnolia trees.  To this northern girl, they look like fauna from another world, with their thick, leathery leaves.  Check out the fruit they produce!  This one is about the size of a softball, and it's soft and velvety to the touch.  Sorry, to my knowledge you can't eat it.  Just lately, the individual pods in this fruit burst open, revealing black bean-sized, crimson, rubbery seeds.  Dazzling.  I'm on the edge of my seat to see it bloom next spring.  That will probably earn a post of its own.

 Tropical-looking flowers.  These beauties in our back yard remind me of Hawaii.  All sorts of lovely associations there.

Stunning wildflowers. Most are unfamiliar to me, blooming at their appointed times, but I smile each time I see one of my young men running across the field with a fistful and a smile on their face.  I know I'm about to be introduced to more of the beauty growing around and about.  I'm so familiar with the Dandelion-Bluebell-Wild Rose-Lupine-Fireweed cycle in Alaska.  We know just what time of year it is, based upon when each of them are blooming.  I expect it's the same for the locals here in East Tennessee, when they see these,

Or when these amazing, towering, royal purple lovelies enter the stage.

And speaking of flowers, how about roses still blooming in October?

They're planted everywhere, it seems, and in the tenth month of the year, they're still showing off.  If that isn't astounding enough to me, imagine my surprise when I noticed landscaping companies busily re-planting the flower beds around town with Pansies, in October.

Now let's talk food for a moment.  I absolutely love being able to buy fresh peaches.  Baskets of "South Carolina peaches" are sold in markets and on corners.  They are absolutely delectable.  Many still have fresh green leaves on.  

Are you still with me?

Produce markets.  Seriously love the variety of fresh, local food here.  Remember my plug for heirloom tomatoes?  Heirloom Peppers are just as noteworthy.  They're gorgeous, in all mottled shades of green, red, brown, and purple.  I never knew peppers could taste like an heirloom pepper tastes. 

I absolutely love to see roadside produce, especially with hand-painted signs, being offered on the honor-system.

 Black Walnuts.  These are yours for the harvesting.  Just listen for the tell-tale sound of the fruits falling from the trees, or if you are very unlucky, discover them by having one fall square on your head, like I did.  It took us awhile to figure out what these lime-like things were.  They actually look and smell like limes.  You gather them up when they fall, rather than pick them from the tree.  Then you save them in a cool, dry place while you wait for them to season.  That's what I call the process of letting them turn from their lovely yellow-lime color to dark brown.  Here's our personal stash.  Getting the nutmeats out of these guys is quite difficult, we've heard, not to mention the process stains your hands.  That ought to make a fun, future post as well.

Yet another thing to love?  Butterflies.  Butterflies everywhere, in all sizes and colors.  They flit from flower to flower, reminding me of my childhood days spent catching and collecting and releasing.

Cumberland Mountain State Park.  Some dear friends introduced us to this, and surely it is deserving of its own post...but shoot, I'm just running out of days.  So here you go.

 In addition to a lovely campground, they offer use of canoes, kayaks, paddle boats, fishing boats, and paddle boards, all at no additional charge.  The beautiful, man-made lake is just a short & crazy ride across the park from the campground.  We highly recommend riding in the back of a pick-up, to get full-effect.

 One of us went out on the water for the very first time ever.

 Neighbor horses.  I grew up next door to an Amish family.  I always loved seeing their horses at work or rest or play.  It's an absolute joy to have horsey neighbors again, and we visit with them often.

There are other things, too, friends.  So many things to love.  I haven't even mentioned extended sandal-wearing into October, or wild Morning Glories twirling and twisting up roadside signage and fences.  Nor have I yet mentioned how Papa Murphy's $5 Faves are all. week. long. rather than just Monday through Wednesday.

I also have not mentioned the joy of finding (with the help of our car salesman, 1 1/2 hours away--true story) our new church family here in the South.  Missing our beloved Alaska church tremendously, we now have part of our hearts here at Church of the Cove, too.  After all, every time we go somewhere new, we have a chance to meet more of the family.  As He so tenderly reminded me as I grieved leaving Wasilla Bible Church, "My people are everywhere, Jessica."

I'm so thankful for a bright and familiar place in the midst of feeling like strangers in a strange land.  And with that, a scraping-of-the-barrel, hodgepodge of things to love, I will close for tonight.

For a complete listing of (much less rambling) post than this in the series, click here.

A Cove to Love: day 29

At risk of overdoing it, allow me to indulge one last time in raving over living so near the Smokies.

Cades Cove.

John Oliver's cabin, War of 1812 veteran

It was the first place on my list to visit here in East Tennessee.  For the last few years, I have pored over photos and articles of this place in magazines.  I had no idea we would actually live so near it, affording the opportunity to visit as often as we like, during all times of the week, and in all seasons. 

Back in a day, this was prime, Cherokee hunting ground.  Later, it was settled by Europeans in the early 1800's. 

Cades Cove boasts the widest variety of historical buildings in the Park.  I still can't get over the fact that the buildings are all left open to walk through at any time.  If you time it just right, you can have the place all to yourself, enjoying the silence except, of course, for the imaginings of former inhabitants' voices in your mind. 

You can walk through and picture the family who lived there, getting along with regular life.  You can look out the windows and see the same, timeless view they enjoyed, or position yourself in front of a fireplace and imagine all the times that took place there. 

Nobody lives here anymore, except for so many deer, elk, and many other critters which call Cades Cove home.  Along the 11-mile loop, there are a working grist mill, numerous barns, log homes and other structures.

There are also 3 churches, which are always a favorite of mine, because you can sense the part these buildings played in the settlement. 

They were a place of gathering, of worship, of community.  They were places of celebration, and places to find comfort in grief.

Walking along the grounds, there are so many tiny gravestones.  I am saddened by so many lives seemingly cut so short.  But I am also heartened to see how precious and valued these little ones were.

To me, the magic of Cades Cove is meandering through such a large space that is in essence left as it was.  So much history.  So many stories. So much to learn.  God-willing, we'll be spending a lot more time here, delving into all.

For links to all other posts in this series, click here.

Community in These Parts: day 28

We've been informed of an interesting fact of life in the South which we've not experienced yet.

Apparently, the stores are crazy with the slightest mention of inclement weather in the fore cast.  People head to the grocery stores in droves, filling the milk and bread aisles.  We hear it's frantic.  The shelves empty as bags of bread overfill in carts, and sometimes spill onto the floors.  Folks, already having secured their booty, hang around and visit with other folks, some of whom they haven't seen since the last bread and milk extravaganza.

Bread and milk.  It doesn't matter if you actually eat bread, or actually drink milk.  If there's a snowflake on the forecast, you run to the local Food Lion or Food City or Kroger. You buy bread and milk.  Around these parts, it's just what you do.  My guess is it's much more about community than about sustenance.

 

As extreme Northerners, there are few weather reports which cause us to run to the store in preparation.  I can think of a couple.  We went for face masks, duct tape, and a few other things in the face of a volcanic eruption and the threat of volcanic dust.  We may make (an air-conditioned) run to Food Lion during a particularly hot part of the inferno they call summer here.  One can't be low on tea to make into sweet sun tea.  We all have our standards I guess.

Community is a good thing.  We were never created to do life alone.  We all need to be supported and to be supportive, whether we realize it or not.  If a single snowflake in the forecast does that for people in the South, I hope there continues to be runs on bread and milk for a long while, whether people actually consume it or not. 

Interested in other quirks and goodness of the South? Click here for other posts in this series.

Stories Brick & Mortar Tell: day 27

I love historic buildings, particularly those built of stone and brick. They express a look and feel of permanence, encompassed in cobblestone walkways, stone columns, dental work, and wide staircases of brickwork.  Nothing material lasts forever, of course, but although they become weathered, blemished, and re-purposed, buildings can be a bridge to the past for us.  

timeless storefronts, downtown Maryville

They provide a bit of timelessness and tradition in a rapidly changing world.

Palace Theater, downtown Maryville

Maryville has some amazing history, as does much of this entire region.  Settled in 1785 when a Revolutionary war veteran built a wooden palisade around Fort Craig, the settlement was later incorporated in 1795.  This station was originally built to protect Euro-Americans from Cherokee attacks.  Talk about history coming to life!  One such Cherokee village was in walking distance from our house.  This place is brimming with reminders of stories past.  

New Providence Presbyterian, downtown Maryville.  We call it the "castle church"

relics from old train station, downtown Maryville

Perhaps one thing that is so fascinating to me, is the longevity of documented history in this region.  There is so much to learn about the Cherokee tribal history, as well as Revolutionary War history, Civil War history, WWI, WWII, right on up to present day.  To see tangible evidence of all these periods in time intermingling is riveting.

old Maryville library

new Maryville library, one of our favorite places

During the Civil War, Maryville was predominantly Union.  Confederates set fire to many buildings, including the courthouse, in order to expel Union soldiers in hiding.  An African-American slave, Polly Toole, is credited with saving the majority of documents therein.

Blount County Courthouse at present, photo credit Deb Campbell

Maryville was a center of abolitionist activity in the early 19th century, largely supported by Isaac L. Anderson, founder of Maryville College.

Maryville College, founded 1819

So many beautiful buildings, each with multiple stories to tell, which weave in and out through many generations.  

Writing this post, I'm positively giddy to begin exploring these topics more thoroughly.  It's one of the first things on my list after finishing this 31 day blogging commitment.  Now I just have to choose which area to begin with...

Click here for other topics in this series.