Jean-Christine Online

Oodles Marie is both a joy and a labor of love. A joy because she’s the sweetest dog in the world, content to wag her tail and lick anyone who pays attention to her. A labor of love because even after seven years of belonging to my family, she’s still a street urchin at heart.

 

Once upon a time, she was a neighborhood dog who loved kids and would show up every day at the middle school my husband worked at. She’d head straight for the patio where the students ate lunch, so sweet that the kids would feed her and love all over her, and the faculty would pretend they didn’t see her. One school year ended. Another began. The principal finally noticed.

 

“Take that dog to animal control,” he instructed my husband, who promptly herded the dog into his car and drove her home.

 

The vet guessed she was about two years old at the time, and it took another two years to train her. Not because she wasn’t bright—she is—but because she’d been forced to survive on her own for so long. She’d obviously never been inside a house and spent weeks learning to walk on our tile floors without slipping and sliding all over the place. She had no clue what to do with a rawhide dog bone. Trash cans meant meals to her. So did any smaller animal with a pulse.

 

Old habits die hard.

 

Took a few years for her to accept she was guaranteed a roof above her head, two meals a day, and dog bones to nosh on. She finally stopped eating my blinds. She loves her furry companions. I even trained her to run with me, so she gets out of the yard and sees the world. She seems happy.

 

But the call of the wild is ingrained in her, and she’s made it clear she stays because she wants to, not because she can’t leave. On occasion, when something has caught her eye on the other side of our fence, she’s gotten really crafty about sneaking out. I need an electronic fence, but so far haven’t been able to budget for one. The collars alone for three dogs . . .

 

Blessedly, Oodles Marie is so street savvy that she’s avoided getting hit by a car on the few occasions she has gotten away. And she’s so friendly that she always heads straight for places with lots of people. The middle school by my house. A nearby car dealership. She has encountered kind folks who recognize what a love bug she is. Twice perfect strangers have dropped her off at the pound. God is good!

 

However, there are fines involved in retrieving my runaway, and the cost goes up each time I have to collect her. Not to mention animal control starts tacking on additional fees if her rabies license is expired (I was overdue by four days the last time!) or she has lost her tag, which happens all too often because she’s so active. (There’s still one underneath the shed where she chased a poor possum!)

Thankfully, she’s only left a few times through the years, and only wound up at the pound twice. But it cost a bundle to spring her that second time. And if she gets busted again, I’ll be paying well over six hundred bucks to get her back—and that’s if her tag is valid. It’s not. She has an appointment with the vet next week.

 

Well, guess who got loose yesterday?

 

I had no clue. One minute I let her and my youngest dog outside to enjoy some fresh air, and the next I hear a frantically-beeping car horn. I look outside the window to see my dear friend (who happens to babysit my dogs when my family goes away) pulling her car into my yard. I rush outside knowing something must be wrong, and she hops out and says, “I found Oodles Marie on my way to Walgreens.” Sure enough, there was my little escapee in the back seat, wagging her tail and looking thrilled for the ride.

 

My friend went on to tell me, “I couldn’t figure out why I turned onto that road. I never go that way. Now I know why God wanted me to. It was a tiny miracle.”

 

I agree. No one knows better than God that having to spring Oodles Marie from the pound to the tune of a lot of money would have been a real problem this week.

 

And He provided.

 

Oodles Marie is home safe and sound. (Albeit grounded from going outside without human supervision!) My friend is totally my hero and benefitting from all sorts of extra prayers I keep sending her way. (God Bless Verna!) And now I’m reflecting on just how easy it is to overlook these sorts of everyday miracles, but how much more fulfilling to savor the moment and know God is there in each tiny second. And how much He cares.

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“God, are you trying to tell me something? ”

Sometimes I astound myself with my oblivion to the obvious. I have a friend whose spiritual messages often parallel mine. God reveals a message to one of us only to duplicate the message to the other. This has been happening for so many years that she has nicknamed us the “half-wits.” We’re guessing He doesn’t trust either of us to get it the first time around.

Today’s message: insight comes on God’s timetable, not mine.

Sometimes insight comes in a flash. Sometimes it takes watching another person struggle before tackling a situation on my own. Sometimes it comes in a long unfolding, a puzzle that slowly takes shape as I find one piece then another, testing each to see if it fits, sometimes not even sure the piece I’m holding belongs to this particular puzzle.

This goes for me and everyone else, I think. But one thing’s for sure: the only way I’m ever going to hear God is by listening.

Which means I can’t be talking.

As I said: obvious. At least now that I’ve put some pieces together.

This insight actually started coming together on a trip to the grocery store a while back. The marketing powers-that-be placed a rack of inspirational titles inside the deli to remind shoppers to be loving and patient while enduring the lines and interminable waits to get a pound of thinly-sliced Boar’s Head white American cheese. A title on that rack caught my eye.

30 Days to Taming Your Tongue.

Oh, yeah.

The Hasty Tongue. The Boasting Tongue. The Tactless Tongue.

Clearly this book was for me. I could even rationalize the purchase as work-related since I was writing a book review column for a local Christian magazine.

In a succinct, humorous and very readable 141 pages, Deborah Smith Pegues managed to address every stupid word that has ever come out of my mouth. And in addition she made me feel as if I’m not the only one in the world who ever inserted foot and swallowed leg. She suggested much worthier uses for my tongue.

Pray.

Admit a mistake.

Applaud someone’s achievement.

Ask for help.

Communicate expectations.

Keep a secret.

Value far beyond the $5.99 I paid for the book.

Okay, so with this book’s help, I recognized quite a few of my own issues and gained some concrete tools to start making changes.

I was off to a great start, but it was only a start. I need to pull that book out again because this week I came face-to-face with a truth I’d managed to forget–impulse control of my tongue isn’t one of my strengths. I need to take Deborah Smith Pegues first and foremost suggestion for the worthiest use of a tongue.

Pray .

For the grace to keep my mouth shut.

God knew I needed to work on this skill long before I did. When I look back, I realize that He has been sending some truly wonderful people into my life for a while now, people who have a much greater need to talk than I do. And when I do manage to keep my mouth shut, I hear all sorts of incredible things to inspire me, make me laugh, and render me breathless in the face of the awesome ways God works through others. And it’s not just through these new friends and acquaintances that He has been working. He has also led my husband to a place in his life and career where he feels the need to talk after too many years of silence.

So God has had me practicing my listening skills without even realizing it. But now that I do, I need to become His collaborative partner and put some serious effort into the job.

Because I need a lot more practice.

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People have been confusing me with my younger sister for some twenty-odd years. If we had a dime for every time we’ve been asked if we were twins, neither of us would both be working as hard as we are today. While I don’t deny similarities in expression, mannerism and energy level, when you stand my sister and me side by side, we’re really as different as night from day. I’m five inches taller and outweigh her by twenty pounds on a good day. I inherited our father’s gray eyes, oval face and pointy chin. She inherited our mother’s big baby blues, Chiclet teeth and square jaw. As far as the Italian family nose goes, I got the high bridge and she got the “hook.” I always joke that she’s the cute blond version of me, but I recently found out just how much I’d like to be the old brunette version of her.

She and her husband took a business trip to Alaska. It was a great opportunity for them to mix business with pleasure, but the timing wasn’t ideal. They have three kids under the age of twelve who aren’t used to being away from mom and dad, and this trip took place the week before school started. No big deal, as far as I was concerned. My kids are in college and high school, so I’ve attended my fair share of open houses and first days. I could handle getting my niece and nephews ready and off to school. I showed up on the day of departure with my suitcase and espresso machine and literally stepped into my sister’s life.

I expected quality time with my niece and nephews. I expected to nurture their sweet, but neurotic dog through his depression over the routine change. I expected to get lots of exercise picking up after three kids. I expected to do lots of laundry. I expected to fish, play Candyland and learn how to ride a ripstick. (Without breaking anything hopefully!)

I didn’t expect my babysitting gig to become a study in love. But that’s exactly what it was. I watched love hard at work in so many incredible ways. In the way my niece and nephews helped me step into the routine of their lives. The way they rallied around each other, respecting that each would weather the storms of loneliness in their individual ways. The way my teenagers made themselves available for lots of “fun time” so the days would pass more quickly for their little cousins. The way my husband, who works in the school system, corralled my eldest nephew for open house at middle school and proceeded to introduce him to every teacher and administrator in the place. The way my mom took all three kids for an entire afternoon of quality time with Granny.

Eventually the novelty of having Aunt Jeanie around 24/7 wore off and the reality of mom and dad being gone set in. The days started to grow longer. And that’s when the love shone even brighter. My aunt’s family got together for a daily mass day, and we all consoled each other on the anniversary of my uncle’s death. My mother knew my youngest nephew would struggle the hardest during these last important days, so she stepped in with a new fish at exactly the right time. As did a dear family friend when she made a big batch of “puppy chow”–the kids’ favorite. And during that all-critical final weekend, my brother-in-law’s sister plucked the kids from their routine for a whole day with a visit to a local theme park, complete with big cousins and not one, but two Nanas.

All along there were phone calls from grannys, nanas, aunts and friends, all checking to make sure we had everything we needed. Teachers and moms at the elementary school open house went out of their way to find out how the kids were doing with mom and dad away. I was even school shopping inside my sister’s Wal-mart when a young girl ran up to me in the school supply aisle and threw her arms around my waist. I had no clue who she was, but in the face of such enthusiasm I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was the big sister. I just hugged her and asked if she was all ready for school.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Can’t wait.” And off she went, none the wiser.

So much love, which made me appreciate all the more what I already knew–my sister is a pretty incredible person.

And that’s what struck me the most about my week inside her life–the reminder that love comes from people.

We reap what we sow.

She’s been sowing. I might have stepped into her life for a week, but I could never fill her shoes.

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