He Provides the Shoes: Walking with God through Breast Cancer

Stumbling Greed

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 16:32:00 +0000

I'm sure that by now almost everyone has heard of the tragic event that took place recently in a Walmart store, located in New York. Apparently, at approximately 5:00 in the morning on black Friday, an angry crowd, anxiously waiting outside the store in anticipation of buying items at reduced prices, stampeded inside as soon as the doors were unlocked. One tiny click at the door, one small turn of a key and within minutes, a 34-year-old, part-time Walmart employee, died as a result of being trampled and suffocated. Just as horrific, other employees as well as police who arrived on the scene minutes later in an attempt to render aid to the poor victim, were allegedly pushed to the side by incoming shoppers as they stumbled over one another.

Can there be a more ironic and disgusting chain of events? What we see in this scenario is a representation of the lowest and most immoral acts known to man: greed.

Perhaps most of the shoppers didn't even realize that there was a man who was literally dying at their feet. In the flurry of all the noise, shouting, pushing and yelling, it is possible that the majority of the customers were unaware of the direness of the circumstance. Like race horses whose adrenalin rockets the second that the gait in front of them is raised, the customers, eyes wide and pupils dilated, most likely piled inside the store as quickly as they could in order to purchase their coveted item before someone else bought the last one of its kind.

Isn't it sad that when we think about this tragedy, we shake our heads in disbelief and wonder where has all the humanity gone? "What is this world coming to?" we ask aloud as we read about this story and others like it.

Well, as much as this event shakes our trust in human interaction, we know that there are hundreds of other stories that revive our spirit. In particular, I am reminded of the firefighters who risked their lives to climb up tens of smoke-filled staircases in New York on 9/11 to rescue people trapped inside, some of whom were confined to wheelchairs, in order to bring them outside to safety. Many of those rescuers lost their lives as they went back inside the burning building in futile attempts to save others. Ironically, if the Walmart store had been on fire and deathly smoke had quickly filled the precious air, we would have most likely seen a different picture: people fighting, pushing and screaming to get out alive.

Greed. Unfortunately it is a word that lies dormant in each of us, and rears its ugly head in many ways. We all suffer from greed, and we all stumble over it at times. I ask myself if I could have willingly run back inside the burning towers, knowing full well that I might not come out alive. I'm not a trained firefighter, but nevertheless, if it were on fire, would I run into the Walmart building in an attempt to save people inside? Most likely, I would not. Why not? Because I want to live.

I thank God every day for the One who died for all of us, Who risked everything for us, Who endured the pain and suffocation for us, and Who ultimately picks us up as we stumble along in life. Give others a hug today, and let them know that in the scheme of things, we are only here for a such a short time, too short in fact, to let greed stand in our way of serving others.

I'll Take Routine, Please

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 13:30:00 +0000

Another routine checkup with my oncologist yesterday turned out to be just that - routine. No changes, no red flags raised, no unusual bumps anywhere, no scares or surprises. I like things being routine sometimes. Days like yesterday make me almost forget that I even had cancer at all, that it's been over five years since my diagnosis. I say "almost" because we never really forget about it. The visits to the oncologist's office remind us without any doubt that we definitely had cancer, but we're just coming back to see if "it's" come back. Strange thing, that cancer. We come back to see if it has returned. Our limited minds conjure up all sorts of scenarios on the way to the office.

And what if it does come back? What will I do then? I don't honestly know. But I guess for now - today - I'll just keep doing what I do every day; I'll trust in the Lord to take me through each struggle, every valley and every storm. Because when you really stop and think about it, even our most challenging days, our troubling pasts, and our difficult moments are all part of His plan to draw us closer to Him. Nothing surprises God. Praise God that our routine days - as well as those that weigh us down - remind us that we're in this together, with Him holding our hand.

Get-Away Days

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 13:32:00 +0000

This past weekend, my husband and I enjoyed a wonderful time traveling with another couple to Cape May, New Jersey. In the aftermath of the recent unusual and surreal natural disasters, namely the earthquake centered approximately 60 miles from our town which shook my house as well as thousands of others up and down the east coast, then Hurricane Irene whose gale-force winds caused mature sycamore trees to bend over like little daisies blowing in a field, followed by severe rains that dismantled nearby roads and washed over two huge bison in the Hershey Park zoo, ultimately leading to their demise, we needed this get-away.

This mini-vacation had been scheduled long before the earth quaked, before the rains and winds pounded around our home, and before I felt so vulnerable. The dates of this get-away had been marked off on my calendar for well over a month. As the days following the storms passed and we surveyed the damage either via television or through our own front windows, there were times when I hesitated about going away at all. There were moments when I questioned traveling more than 200 miles from home and leaving my two girls (who are very capable of taking care of themselves) alone.

What if something happens while we're away? What if we get into an accident while we are driving? Who will be there for my children if I die? Should we cancel the trip all together? The pricey hotel rooms had already been booked and carried a "no refund" policy. Am I overreacting? How can I possibly proceed with this?

Coupled with the approaching anniversary of the attacks on our country ten years ago, those questions brought a sense of angst and worry within me. Then I remembered particular scripture verses that spoke to me. One is Jeremiah 29:11, which states, "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." You see, during those days after the storms raged through my town as well as in my mind, I foolishly began focusing on my presence here on earth, and not on God's plans for me - as His child. I was stuck on the side of the storms and refused to see the blessings waiting on the other side.

God knew about those storms, and in His sovereignty He allowed them to happen. We don't always understand why events occur and why innocent people and animals have to suffer and die. We only know that God keeps all His promises, and that He gives us the hope that we need each day. Without hope, we're just those small daisies blowing in the wind. But with the promises of our Lord, the hope we have in Him allows us to see the real reason we're here at all: to press on and trust Him even through the storms of life.

Don't live life in fear of tomorrow. It only robs you of the joy of today. God has a plan for you. All you need to do is trust in Him to carry you through the storms to the blessings that await you on the other side.

Overnight Changes

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 01:50:00 +0000

Breast cancer is such an interesting ice breaker. It can bring women (and men) together in ways that might not have happened otherwise. I've found that having had breast cancer makes a woman an "expert" in so many areas of this disease, and almost overnight, it's as if others see her as someone packed with knowledge about it, simply because she's personally "gone through it." At least that's what I've noticed.

Tonight the phone rang and an acquaintance of mine from church informed me that she had recently been diagnosed with non-invasive breast cancer. She'd had a lumpectomy, and she's scheduled to undergo 30 radiation treatments. The woman had some questions about what to expect. You know, for a brief moment, I had to pause and think about the radiation treatments that I received more than five years ago. But my initial hazy recollection of the events suddenly became crystal clear in my mind's eye, as I spoke to her, and in an odd sense, I found myself reliving some of those moments all over again today.

I told her that compared to the chemotherapy, the radiation treatments were a piece of cake for me. Knowing that chemotherapy was not part of her protocol, in some ways I found if difficult to relay my experiences to her because the effects of the chemotherapy overshadowed nearly every other aspect of my care. In my experience, chemo. became the "thing" that led to virtually every negative side effect. While the radiation left visible purplish skin and itchy patches at the site under my armpit, the chemotherapy left much more inconspicuous - and permanent - marks within my body. I still find myself stumbling in its wake. The hot flashes. The difficulty remembering a phone number just seconds after hearing it. The weight gain. The loss of sex drive. Osteopenia, a precursor to osteoporosis, at age 44. And the feeling that some things just seem "different" in my body, but I can't really verbalize what they are. I just don't feel the same anymore.

Maybe I can attribute the "different" post cancer feelings to menopause, which was also brought on by the chemotherapy, almost overnight. But I firmly believe that there's more to it than that.

The phone call tonight was a difficult one, because it was hard for me to separate the side effects of chemotherapy from those of radiation. Who knows? Maybe the two treatments had a synergistic effect and actually made each one worse than either one would have been on its own. All I know is that after speaking with literally tens of women with breast cancer over the last five years since my diagnosis, no two women have had the exact experience.

However, there is one the that we do all share: we've learned to appreciate each day that we're here. Each new day is a bonus. We all remember the day and time that we heard the news that we had cancer, and our lives were changed dramatically from that point on. We know that each hug we give, every smile that we demonstrate to a stranger, and each silver-lined cloud are all so much more precious than ever. Because we've learned that things can change literally overnight, we don't want to waste one single day wishing things were as they used to be.

Edit Profile

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 12:19:00 +0000

Edit Profile. Yep -- that's exactly what I did today. I changed one word. My profile page now begins with these words, "I am a five-year breast cancer survivor." Five years. I changed the number four to five years! It's so hard to believe that I've been cancer free for five years.

Webster defines edit as "to modify, or adapt so as to make suitable or acceptable." As compelling as it was to make the change to my profile so that it was more accurate, I couldn't help but feel somewhat hesitant about changing that small word.

People might ask me, "How in the world could you feel any hesitation? You are done! You've passed the five-year mark!" I guess the only answer I am able to give is this: Cancer caught me off guard, rocked my world, and forced me to "modify and adapt" my entire view of life. The moment I'd received the news that I had breast cancer, I needed to remind myself daily that I would be okay, and that I would survive. Never before had I needed to adapt my outlook so dramatically.

Of course, I hope that it's over, and that I am indeed "done" with cancer forever. Who doesn't hope for this? The thing about cancer is that it's taught me to live one day at a time, and to hold on to the little things even more tightly. Little things like my kids' hugs, and the sounds of the peeper frogs chirping at night. Or the beautiful sunny daffodils blooming at my doorstep, even though there's still a chill in the air. It's not that I took all those things for granted before my diagnosis. It's that now cancer has forced me to modify my thinking and to savor those things like never before.

Yes, I've changed my profile page. It was easy to edit one little word. Looking back over these last five years, though, I've realized that the real challenge is to allow God to "edit or modify" me, as to make me more suitable or acceptable in His eyes. Not only did I change the letters on my profile page to reflect the passage of time since my diagnosis, but I need to change my spiritual profile so that it reflects God's image. For our actual profile isn't really up-to-date until we accept that His plan for our lives is absolutely perfect. And that concept is something that I can definitely accept, without any modification.

Remembering the Fight

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 12:27:00 +0000

I met with a nice young woman yesterday. Jen is finishing up her master's degree and was given a list of breast cancer survivors' names, including mine, to contact. As a final part of her degree requirements, she is writing a paper which details the type and quality of support that breast cancer survivors received while going through cancer treatments. The endpoint for Jen's studies is finally within her view.

I was surprised at the feelings that surfaced within me as she asked the questions, one at a time, and proceeded to jot down my answers. Even though more than five years have passed since my breast cancer diagnosis, our brain is an amazing organ, allowing us to remember small details of past events as if they occurred just yesterday. Although I didn't cry during the interview, I could see how many people would become emotional as they described their experiences, or if they were indeed going through a recurrence, perhaps in the midst of treatments at the time of the interview.

For me, though, even though my treatments are now only a memory, just the simple act of recounting the events - the number of radiation and chemotherapy treatments, for example - left me feeling somewhat depressed, almost grieving. I felt as though I was reliving a part of me that I have, in some intangible way, put behind me. Oddly, as I walked through this journey again yesterday with Jen, something occurred to me. Although she appeared kind in her demeanor, her furrowed brows and facial expressions revealed to me that she really couldn't understand what it was like to deal with all the fatigue, nausea, family issues, and uncertainties that people with cancer face on a daily basis. Unmarried and without children, Jen didn't know what I do: that cancer is so much more than just an obstacle that we hurdle and then move past it. No, cancer is an everyday fight - for the rest of your life.

The real truth is, I didn't know what it was like, either. I didn't really know how to fight, not until it happened to me.

Which is why I'd like to start a support group in my area. I haven't any idea about how to initiate such an adventure, and I welcome anyone who could point me in the right direction. If you have any advice about how to get a breast cancer support group started, please let me know.

I'll never forget the feelings and emotions that go along with this journey. My hope is that I can help others remember to keep fighting, too.

Silence of Daffodils

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 13:21:00 +0000

I heard something on the radio yesterday that made me think. The guest speaker was Dr. Laura Schlessinger. Although I typically don't agree with all her comments, she usually provides a strong argument for adherence to basic truths. The one thing that she said was this: "We won't remember the words spoken from our enemies, but instead, the silence from our friends."

I remember how helpful people had been to me during my cancer diagnosis and treatments which began nearly five years ago. I remember receiving encouraging, out-of-the-blue cards and phone calls from friends, neighbors, or my husband's coworkers whom I'd never met before. I recall people bringing home-cooked meals to my doorstep and hearing the doorbell ring as I rested my head on pillows, feeling too nauseated at the time to even roll over in bed. I can still hear the footsteps of my kids - my cheerleaders - as they ran to the door and said "thank you" to the person standing there, and then ushered them into the kitchen and placed the dinner on the counter top. I remember the woman who offered to plant yellow daffodils along my front walkway. "They symbolize cancer and new life," she had told me as I watched her and my girls dig into the dirt and plant each bulb. I remember feeling too fatigued to kneel down and help her dig.

And I wait each spring in anticipation of seeing the first new shoots pop up through the soft dirt. And oh, how beautiful this picture of silence can be!

Yes, I remember all the kind words, both spoken and unspoken, provided to me many years ago. But as difficult as it sometimes is, I try not to focus on friends who might not have spoken much to me, or called me, during my trial. People who I would have expected to hear from, but didn't. People who, for whatever reason, didn't step up to the plate. Because focusing on those people, takes time away from my real focus: the people who blessed me in so many more ways than I can comprehend. Those are the people I'll choose to think about and remember well. I'll not dwell on the ones who were silent during the hard times. Life is too short to remember the "silence from our friends." It's just too short.

Instead, we all need to wait patiently for our own "daffodils" to bloom each season, because that is the type of silence we should try to remember.

The Votes are In!

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 14:25:00 +0000

Two compliments, and therefore, Caroline was eligible to receive two dollars! (See previous post!)

She declined to accept the money, however. Her smile spoke volumes as she said, "I'm gonna wear that sweater a lot!!!"

Who knew?

The Sweater Dilemma

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 13:18:00 +0000

My eleven-year-old daughter received a very nice (in my opinion) blue and teal striped, V-neck sweater from my mom at Christmas. My daughter usually wears her sister's hand-me-downs, and she actually likes to wear them since they are from a special, well-known store. (My older daughter often buys most of her own clothes, because I am trying to teach her the value of a dollar). The majority of my youngest daughter's clothes, are slightly worn but are brand named. And they're from a cool store. You get the picture.

This particular sweater, however, hadn't been purchased from the brand named store. There was no logo on it, one designed for easy recognition. Upon opening the gift, my daughter appeared to be smiling, so I assumed she liked it.

Somehow, by the time we got the sweater home and unpacked, the receipt was missing. When she tried the sweater on at home, under duress I might add, it appeared to be slightly too large for her frame. I offered to wash it, since it was made of cotton. She agreed that washing it would make it shrink and therefore fit better, and THEN she would wear it. So she said.

I washed it, and she again tried it on. Perfect fit. But my daughter declared that she didn't like it. I got upset. Very upset. I told her that it is a very nice sweater and that Grandma put a lot of time and effort into buying it for her, not to mention that she is on a fixed income and every penny counts. I suggested that we visit an orphanage to see what other children were wearing. To be honest, I don't even know where an orphanage is located , but if I had to, I'd find one.

Finally, at my wits end, I told her that she just had to wear it to school. I felt like a bad mother for insisting that she do this. I also made a deal with her. The deal was this: For every person that paid her a compliment on that sweater, I'd give her a dollar.

She replied with, "How about this: For every person who makes fun of it or gives me a dirty look, you owe me a dollar." Hmmm... I couldn't help but wonder which of the two scenarios would be a better bargain for me.

So... here is my request to anyone reading this post: Please pray that she gets a few compliments! I'll let you know how it turns out!

Cows and Breast Cancer

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Sun, 05 Dec 2010 23:05:00 +0000

Thank goodness for the cows. Yesterday my husband and I went to a local tree farm with Caroline, our youngest, to select our Christmas tree, a tradition we do each year. (This year, however, my other two children couldn't join us and we had their blessing to go ahead without them).

The three of us plodded along in the cold, biting wind, scanning the horizon for the "perfect tree" only to find that in most cases, the tree that had caught our attention from a distance was in fact either previously tagged, or was too tall, too bare, or just not quite right. My patience was running thin as my toes were becoming noticeably numb.

Caroline, being the astute animal lover that she is, spotted several cows grazing in the field located just adjacent to the tree farm. Although a barbed wire fence separated her from the cows, she quietly walked up to the them, and she carefully extended her hand through the fence to pet them. Several cows began to walk toward her, but none of them ventured close enough for her to touch. Her excitement mounted, however, and she quickly, albeit temporarily, abandoned the idea of finding the right Christmas tree.

At first I just wanted to walk over to her and tell her to leave the cows alone, that we needed to select a tree, cut it down, and head on home. The sun was almost completely lost behind the horizon by now, and my fingertips were feeling the drop in temperature. I had fish at home waiting to be marinated, and I was hungry. Caroline, on the other hand, was totally oblivious. Her focus was on those cows, talking to them in a soft and comforting voice.

I stepped back a bit and couldn't help but see things differently - through her eyes. She is a girl of eleven years of age, and the innocence that exuded from her tiny frame as she tried to coax the cows to come to her, well, it stopped me in my tracks. There won't be many more times when she will feel drawn to pet some dirty cows in the chill of winter. Experience with my other two older children has shown me that. As they enter their teen years, children grow, mature, and quickly shed the child-like innocence that we as adults have lost decades ago. And you know what? I let her watch those cows. I let her keep trying to touch one, and then another, through that barbed fence. I let her relish in the cold evening air, without noise, cares, or hurries.

Caroline, my husband, and I stood there looking at those cows for almost 20 minutes. She liked how they seemed to enjoy rubbing their faces along a large, fallen dead tree, and she smiled as the branches also provided a gratifying back scratch for them. She looked into their dark, warm eyes. One or two cows coughed, sending a puff of warm breath into the chilly air, and this caused Caroline to laugh out loud as only little girls can do.

Finally, we found a tree that was just what we wanted and headed back to the barn where we paid for it and chatted a bit to the shivering lady standing behind the wooden table. Then, almost as if on cue, I turned around and saw a couple that we had met about 2 years ago when we were searching for a new church. I hadn't seen her in nearly two years. We talked for a bit, and the woman shared with me that she was just diagnosed with breast cancer. She'd had surgery two days before Thanksgiving.

Her statement created a whirlwind of emotions within me: disbelief, empathy, fear, instant bonding, and of course concern for her. We chatted for quite some time, but it was the look in her eyes that was the most captivating. She asked me some of the very same questions that I'd asked other survivors when I was first diagnosed. Her questions ranged from hair loss to nausea, treatments to exercise. Her eyes were fixed on my own, waiting for the answers, searching my eyes for responses and making notes, mentally "writing down" my responses as quickly as she could. "I'll call you," she said as we parted. And I hope she does. But if she doesn't, I will definitely call her.

What do the cows have to do with this story? Simple: If Caroline hadn't stopped to really look at the cows, we would have missed seeing the woman with breast cancer. And the opportunity to speak to her in a way that only other survivors can - with sheer honesty and valuable experience - would have been lost.

I am just so thankful that I felt God's calling to wait for the cows with Caroline, because we just never know what opportunity may be waiting for us around the corner, even in a cold barn.

Positive Relationship

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 02:07:00 +0000

Whatever the cause, my nerves are frazzled. Maybe it's the hormones. Or perhaps a full moon will be upon us soon. Perhaps it's the fact that my husband's been out of town for a few days, my son's at college, and there's just not quite enough testosterone within our home necessary to mitigate all the estrogen and progesterone floating around. My daughters, ages 14 and 11, have been bickering with each other. A lot. Not full-blown arguments. Just the annoying, continuous eye-rolling, mixed with the sarcastic comments, added to the what-in-the-world-are-you-talking-about look that accompanies the simplest of questions. Neither daughter claims to have "started" any of the heated discussions, yet both feel the need to release the final word, or provide the last look of disdain, or make the last annoying sound. Sounds like the clicking of the tongue, or the audible clearing of the throat.

What is it with women/girls? My experience as a nurse, mom, wife, sister and daughter tells me that men don't act this way. They just don't. It's almost as if men simply don't have the time for such silliness. In its simplest form, maybe when young women behave in this manner it is a way for them to "rehearse" the skills necessary for survival - to win out the other women in search of finding the strongest mate. But how is a mom supposed to cope with the daily "survival of the fittest" role playing that takes place in her own living room?

I'd read somewhere once that according to some studies, there is a higher divorce rate among parents that have 2 or more daughters than among those with two or more sons. Good thing that my husband is out of town this week.

Funny thing is that I remember bickering with my own sister, when we were younger, decades ago. Maybe it's genetics? Maybe I have a dominate trait for bickering that was passed on to my offspring. Oh dear. This is getting more and more somber as I write.

I think that at this very moment, now that my two young daughters are finally tucked away in their beds sleeping peacefully, now would be a perfect time for me to settle down with a glass of my favorite wine, and wrap myself in one of my coziest afghans with a good book that I have been waiting to finish. There are some days when I need to remind myself that this too will pass. After all, my mom made it through - survived it all, if you will - so I know that I can, too.

I don't know if there's any validity to the relationship between divorce rates and raising daughters. But I'll bet that, compared to moms with sons, there is definitely a positive relationship between moms with daughters and the amount of gray hair on their heads!

Men and Pants

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 23:34:00 +0000

Okay, I need a little help here. Today when I walked into my favorite quaint restaurant, I noticed something that I've never seen before. Standing at the counter was a very large man. Probably at least 6-feet 4-inches. Masculine features. The odd thing about it was that he was wearing a skirt.

One may be wondering if the person in question was really a man. After all, initially all I could see was the back of this person. And I noticed the long, flowing, black hair, and yes ... that tan skirt. Perhaps the person standing at the counter was indeed a very tall and overweight female.

But as soon as he turned around to secure a seat, my observation was correct, and I couldn't help but notice his dark mustache.

Men just don't wear skirts in the small conservative town where I live. They just don't.

My husband was with me, so after sitting down at a small table together, I asked his opinion. The only reason he could think of was that the man was so large that finding comfortable pants wasn't possible. Men really do that when they have no other option?

So, my question is this: Why do you think this man dressed in this manner? I truly am not trying to judge, and please forgive me if I sound judgmental. I am just very perplexed as to why he would go out in public like that. Any thoughts?

Try-Outs

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 17:21:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, my daughter tried out for the high school's volleyball team. She's a freshman this year. Both my daughters had decided to switch and are now attending the public school instead of the smaller, private one. Melissa had reasoned that one of the best ways to fit in, and to quickly become acclimated to a new school, was to try out for a team sport, namely volleyball.

The first scheduled day for try-outs was a particularly humid Monday morning. Melissa awoke at the crack of dawn, changed her clothes, and stuffed half a banana into her mouth. She had proudly donned her new sneakers, spotless white knee pads, and loose-fitting, comfortable mesh shorts. I drove her to the high school, and noticed her trembling slightly as she walked into her new school. Watching the door to the gymnasium close behind her, I said a silent prayer and drove back home.

Four hours later, I picked her up at the back of the school. What Melissa didn't realize was that unlike her, the majority of the other girls at try-outs had played volleyball competitively in past years. Along with their ultra-competitive style, the first thing that she noticed was their perfect attire, which also screamed of confidence. Melissa conveyed to me that all the other girls wore matching flat shoes designed specifically for volleyball and knee pads that had obviously been worn for several seasons and were now gray and tattered. The general look was completed by each girl sporting the same type of small, tightly fitting lycra shorts, that according to Melissa, "showed everything!" She said that she was "terrible" and stood out like a sore thumb. Every serve, according to Melissa, fell short of the net.

Disappointed, she had relayed to me that she just didn't fit in. Sobbing, she had told me that some of the other girls were mean to her, often yelling at her when she hadn't mastered the detailed "patterns" that came so easily to them. Her confidence waning with each sentence, I listened and put my hand on hers to try to comfort her trembling body as I drove. I wasn't sure if her red face was a result of the heat, or of the humiliation she was trying so desperately to hide behind.

My heart broke for he as she spoke. I told her that she didn't have to go back to the second and final day of try-outs. I also said that I would leave the decision totally up to her, but that she would most likely run into those girls in the halls at school. If that happened, how would she feel? We talked about her going to the final day of try-outs. If she dropped out now, did she want the others to remember her as the "new" girl, who couldn't do the drills, and who dressed in long baggy shorts when every volleyball player knows that those are no longer in style?

The next morning, I heard Melissa's alarm go off, just as it had the day before. And she came downstairs for breakfast, dressed for try-outs.

I drove her to the school for the second day, told her I was proud of her, and watched her walk into the building. Just as before, the door to the gym closed behind her. This time, however, my prayer was followed by a lone tear.

That afternoon, she informed me that she didn't make the team. But she said something that surprised me. She looked at me in the eye and said, "You know, Mom, I'm glad that I went back. Now I know what to expect for next year."

Melissa may never try out for volleyball again, or perhaps, with a little practice, one day she'll surprise herself and make the team. But in my book, she's not only a courageous player in this game called life, she's mastered one of the toughest drills of all: perseverance.

Resilience

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 20:28:00 +0000

Kids are resilient. My previous post described the cute little bunny that Caroline and her friend rescued from the basement window well several weeks ago.

Caroline just adored this creature; each morning she'd waken earlier than most children during summer vacation and stroke, feed, pamper, and coddle her new bunny. But as nature would dictate, one morning after I'd returned home from running errands, Caroline's countenance said it all: The bunny died.

She had told me how she found the poor creature, and how she even tried to revive it by giving it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation through a straw. Poor child. I pictured her using a straw in a vain attempt to breathe life into this creature; her efforts, unfortunately, were useless. Her tears fell hard, and even though I never really wanted that rabbit in the first place, it was very difficult for me to swallow the lump that formed in my own throat. My eyes watered slightly, not because of the rabbit's death, but because of the effect the rabbit's life had had on my daughter.

But she buried the bunny in the back yard, and Mystie, our dog continues to sniff that area and is at a loss as to what could possibly be there.

Now, weeks later, the bunny is a distant memory in Caroline's mind. Her focus has returned to where it had been before the bunny ever came into her life, namely, her time with friends, playing her guitar, and teaching her puppy silly tricks.

I'm sure that she will always remember the bunny that she rescued from the window well, and how she held it and tried to keep it alive. For more than a week, her love overflowed onto that little creature, and even though it's gone, her memories of Thumper will most likely linger for years, if not for the rest of her life.

And you know, I don't think that I'll soon forget it either. It made me realize how something so seemingly insignificant can impact a little girl forever.

Friend or Foe?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 18:25:00 +0000

Meet our newest family member. Yes, Caroline and the sweet girl next door found this little guy along with his two siblings in the backyard yesterday. One of the tiny hares hopped away (lucky for him) and the other two were homeless, and according to the girls' account, motherless. It appears that the two lone bunnies are now officially, as far as the girls see it, adopted; one was taken in by the neighbor, and the other by my daughters.

I know, I know, it's cute as a bunny, and it couldn't have a sweeter disposition, but LET'S FACE IT - this creature will grow up! And he'll become the menace that tortures me incessantly.

Last spring, right around this time of year, my beautiful pink - and nearly four-feet high - star lilies were just on the verge of blooming, their buds almost ready to burst with color. Like a mother who nurtures her newborn baby with tender care, I watched and watered those lilies meticulously, my anticipation growing with each passing day. One morning while I sipped my coffee at the table, I looked out of the kitchen window and spotted it - a rabbit - most likely this little one's mama, (or aunt, or cousin or sister, or ... you get it) stretching up on her hind quarters, nibbling at the robust, juicy leaves located at the base of my lilies! I flew out the door and clapped my hands vigorously, but it was too late; she had chewed the stalks raw. The leaves had been sheered off from the ground up to about twelve inches of the plant. I almost cried, literally. And I'd hoped that not too much damage had been done. But, I was wrong. Most of the buds never had a chance to open, at least not completely.

So now what's a mom to do when her ten-year-old walks into the house wearing a smile larger than life, cradling this bundle of joy in her tiny hands? Upon seeing his little whiskers twitching in a way that just highlighted his innocence, I, of course, immediately experienced a hair-raising flashback of my gorgeous phantom lilies that never saw the light of day. I tried so very hard to explain to Caroline that bunnies need to be outside - and they need to be free - to roam with their families and friends.

My logic and reasoning didn't work.

"But Hoppity will die out there!" she squealed. Hoppity? She'd already named it; the die was cast.

After I again explained to Caroline that the bunnies eventually damage plants and flowers in my garden, she thought for a moment and then cried, "Well, we can put a shock collar on it so that it won't go too far into the street or into the flower beds!"

Of course! Why didn't I think of that? Let's do all we can to keep the bunnies in our yard, including using behavioral shock therapy!

And here we are, twenty-four hours later, when another irony pops up: would you believe that we are actually planning to make a trip to the pet store to buy one of those small water bottles with the little metal tube that attaches to the side of the hamster cage (which she drug up from the basement) - just to make his little life more pleasant!?!

And all this for a rabbit who is just waiting to devour my beautiful flowers once he's free.

Any advice out there? Please! Help!

The Hamster's Wheel

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 20:19:00 +0000

Don't underestimate the power of a hamster.

At 7:00 A.M. my alarm clock's annoying buzzing sound jolted me from deep inside a wonderful dream, whereby I instantly woke up my family members, insisted they ate some breakfast as they appeared from their bedrooms, rushed my girls out the door so that we'd make it to church on time, after which we headed to Target to pick up a gift for my daughter's art teacher who recently had a baby boy, scarfed down lunch at Subway with my family, drove my youngest to her art class with the baby gift in hand, then drove my other daughter to horseback riding lessons, where it occurred to me that we were out of toilet paper so I stopped to pick some up, then I raced to get my girls after their respective lessons, and FINALLY returned home to chop up nuts to take to an ice cream social at church scheduled to take place in less than an hour.

I don't know, but I always thought that weekends were supposed to be a bit more relaxing than this, right?

Has anybody ever feel like you're the silly little hamster forever spinning around in that proverbial wheel? And getting nowhere?

Well, at least I'll have the chopped nuts to eat, so I guess being a hamster isn't all that bad!

Besides, there are some days when moms must be that hamster. Without moms, who would be there to get all the things done that ultimately lead to a happier nest?!?

Twenty Miles

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 18:19:00 +0000

Twenty miles. That's how far I rode on my bike this morning with three other women who live in my neighborhood. Our journey commenced at 8:30 A.M. and we finished up about two hours later, feeling tired, our legs somewhat shaky, but definitely empowered.

It's funny, but as I rode along, I was a child again. I could hear the birds singing cheerfully overhead through the trees, see the squirrels darting quickly across the lane in order to get out of our way, and smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle bushes that seemed to be bursting with their yellow color and intoxicating aroma. The overall picture reminded me of when I was a ten-year-old girl, peddling my bike and humming to myself, and wondering what I'd be like as an adult. Where would I live? Would I get married? Have babies? As a young girl, I'm sure I'd never thought it possible for someone at my age to ride a bike for twenty miles!

We stopped only briefly, and only twice, to quench our thirst. Then it was back to cycling again. Like a jet engine, the time just flew by. The warm wind that whistled past my ears and tried to evaporate the droplets of water along my forehead was a much needed bonus as we pushed forward in the rising temperatures. While peddling hard and feeling the small bumps in the road that popped up almost without warning beneath my tires - keeping me ever vigilant and always on my guard - I was that little girl again. Back then, I held on tightly to those handle bars.

And I held on ever so tightly today, too.

Today was so incredibly freeing, and uplifting, and it provided me with a gift: to laugh with others, to enjoy the scenery, and to just let go for awhile. For a period of time, this child was without any cares or worries. And you know, it felt extraordinarily good.

As we finished up the trip and were just a few hundred feet from our starting point, the cars which had been parked in the parking lot became larger with each peddle stroke. We'd completed our twenty miles, and even though there were some bumps along the way which made me grip the handle bars a little tighter and slow down at times, I'd made it. The journey was over, and instead of feeling like that child who wonders about her future, I was the grown woman who cherishes each moment. Twenty miles may seem like an impossible distance to travel, but as I prepare for the days ahead, I know that there will be the warm breeze that I'll need to propel forward and face the challenges. And I'll stop for a moment at intervals, to get my bearings, and more importantly, to rehydrate my parched and shaking soul.

The wonderful thing is that I'm ready to get on that bike and do it all over again someday real soon, one peddle stoke of life at a time.

Blame it on the Potatoes

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Mon, 24 May 2010 19:21:00 +0000

If anything out of the ordinary is going to happen, it will happen to me. While I was driving home after stopping to buy some potatoes in anticipation of preparing a nice dinner for my family plus two house guests, I noticed the truck moving ahead of me. It was creeping along ever so slowly, about three cars in front. Initially, I couldn't tell what type of truck it was, but then as it crawled up the hill, I saw it - the sign on the back of the truck that read, "wet paint."

At that point, I noticed that the double yellow lines to my left were indeed looking much brighter and more yellow than usual. Almost a pretty yellow hue, you could say. But being the cautious and conservative driver that I am, I then continued along that winding road and purposefully positioned my car as far away from the center yellow lines as I could, so that my right-sided tires were as far onto the right shoulder as possible. "Surely, the yellow paint is the kind that dries immediately," I thought, "but just to be sure, I'll stay to the far right, along the white line." I had about two more miles to go, so my tires simply "hugged" the right side of the road for the duration of the trip.

I pulled into my driveway, and parked the car. Then I got out and surveyed my tires. That's when my stomach nearly fell to my shoes. You guessed it: The paint on the road had NOT dried previously as I had hoped. My left tires were the same pretty yellow color as that double line, and paint could even be seen inside the wheel well and fenders.

Trembling as I walked into the house, I collected my thoughts and took a few long deep breaths. This sort of thing has never happened to me before. The house guests were planning to arrive in less than 30 minutes, and because the truck had slowed me down considerably, I was way behind schedule on finishing making my twice-baked potatoes.

My heart raced as I pondered what to do. Would washing the car do any good? How about taking it to the car wash? Power-washing? Just then my 20-year-old son bounded into the house. "Hey, what happened to the car? The whole right side is covered with white paint!" He seemed to be grinning.

My heart stopped.

Right side? ... White paint?

I was quite sure that my son is not dyslexic. And I was even more certain that he knows his colors.

Like a madwoman, I dropped the spoon that I'd been holding to scoop out the filling for the twice-baked potatoes and flew past my son to the garage. Sure enough, the right side of the car was freshly painted, in glorious white. Then anger set in, as I pondered what had happened and remembered that there were no orange cones or signs along the road to warn unsuspecting drivers like me that they would be receiving a free paint job, and that it would consist of two colors.

Then I really felt sick. So, I did what any other normal, middle-aged woman would do at this point: I turned up the volume of my almost-on-the-verge-of-crying voice, and I phone my husband.

The volume and tone worked like a charm, because his first question to me when he heard me begin to speak (more like whimper) was, "Were you in an accident?"

Between you and me, I have to tell you that I smiled. I smiled because it was clear from his concerned tone of voice that a little unexpected paint was minor compared to what could have happened. I explained to him that there were no cones or signs to warn me of the wet paint, and after a few choice words were spoken from his end of the phone, we discussed what to do. My car is now at the shop, and at this point we're not sure if the yellow and white paint can be removed without damaging the normal blue color that is supposed to be there. We have a deductible of $1000.00 on our insurance policy.

By the end of the phone call, my husband sighed, "It could have been worse." I smiled again. THAT comment is so unlike the man who inspects the car often, looking for any dings or scratches that might have occurred along the way. "Wait 'till you see the car," I thought.

But then I went inside again and finished making the potatoes, his favorite.

"I've never seen a car with both sides painted before," the nice man from the body shop replied on the phone.

And to think that if only I hadn't stopped to buy those potatoes... I would have been driving ahead of that truck ... and I would have missed the paint on the road ... and this would not have happened ... and...

It could have been worse ... Right?

Anyone else ever had this happen?

The Lady Bagging Groceries

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Tue, 18 May 2010 12:34:00 +0000

Grocery shopping during a rainy, damp Monday morning began in its typical fashion yesterday, but the event turned out to be an eye-opener. I watched as the customer in front of me carefully placed her items on the moving conveyor belt. The store was quite busy and noisy: the beeping of the scanners, the din of the items being placed on the conveyor belts, and the rustling noises produced when the plastic grocery bags were being pulled apart by the hands of the "baggers" were sounds that were all too familiar to me.

I overheard the customer speaking to the woman who was bagging the groceries in my line. (I'll name her the "bagger" for lack of a better word.) The bagger appeared to be about 35 years old - a soft-spoken, African-American woman with a speech impediment, dark eyes, and slightly unkempt hair. Her jeans were quite worn, but not really tattered. Her smile was the kind that made you want to do the same.

As the customer unloaded her groceries onto the belt, I noticed the way she chatted with the bagger. The bagger had replied that she'd been at work since 6:00 in the morning, and she was tired. She looked very haggard to me.

"My son wants to celebrate today," the bagger said proudly to the customer.

"Is today a special day?" asked the customer, warmly.

The bagger replied softly, "It's my birthday! And my seven-year-old son wants to celebrate!"

I overheard the customer reply, "Well, Happy Birthday!" as the two women exchanged smiles.

The bagging of the groceries continued, and the customer and the cashier exchanged money. The sounds of the beeping scanners continued to fill the air all around as well.

Finally, I noticed the customer pushing her filled cart through the line and toward the exit door. Then, she changed direction slightly, and wheeled her cart away from the exit. I lost sight of her at that point, and I finished my task of loading my groceries onto the conveyor belt.

After paying for my groceries, I then noticed the customer re-approaching the same woman who'd been bagging our groceries.

In her outstretched hands, the customer held a beautiful, chocolate, six-inch round cake, which she handed to the woman.

The tired woman who'd been plugging along and bagging groceries for 7 and 1/2 hours smiled, and she eagerly took the cake from the customer's hands. I couldn't help but smile. And I smiled even more as I drove home and pictured the woman sharing her birthday cake with her little boy at home. I'd hoped their home was a quiet place where the two of them could sing, laugh, and enjoy the moment, a moment when the woman could forget about the beeping of scanners or bagging others' groceries.

It was indeed a day to celebrate, not only by the tired woman, but by me as well. Kindness knows no boundaries, and it can even be found on a damp, rainy Monday morning, in a grocery store where scanners never seem to stop their beeping, but someone cared enough to celebrate.

A Choice

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 14:50:00 +0000

Childhood Love. As a child, I remember feeling the love from my parents, mostly springing up from something as basic as their smiles, the kind that made you feel like they loved you just the way you were.

Teenage love. Oh, how wonderful and yet, at the same time, how awful that love felt to me. A new crush on a boy often led to countless hours of daydreaming, my own heart racing uncontrollably when he would simply enter the classroom, and then the waiting for his much-coveted phone call. Sometimes the call came, sometimes it didn't. Eventually, the feelings faded, along with the immature love.

Marriage love. Now this is, without a doubt, the most challenging of all loves. I have learned to fully appreciate and put my trust in a saying that's stuck in my brain:

"Sometimes love is not a feeling. It's a choice."

These past few months, I have had to rely on the above statement more than I'd like to. There have been times when I'd question a lot of things about my relationship. Divorce was never an option, but I can understand how some people end up in that place. Sometimes, love is nothing more than a choice that we make in order to make the marriage work. Maybe a better way to say it is that there are times in everyone's marriage when we choose to keep loving, even though we don't feel like loving that person. Not one single bit. But we do it because we've made the choice to do it. There's not any other option.

In the long run, making the choice to love someone prevails over our immediate feelings. Feelings come and go, but choosing to love when it's the last thing we are feeling, takes much more effort. And patience. And time.

In the long run, love lasts. Feelings don't.

Love is sometimes a choice. A hard choice. There are times when choosing to love is so very difficult, almost impossible, but at the same time, when I choose to love, it turns out to be the right choice.

(This post is dedicated to Debby, whose post I just read reminded me of the saying above. Blessings to you and Tim, Debby).

Bittersweet Day

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 13:24:00 +0000

One week ago I celebrated my birthday, the fourth one since I became a "cancer survivor." And each birthday makes me realize how I need to celebrate each day of my life, not just the special ones. For all of our days are special, all are meaningful, and all are blessings.

For some reason, however, April 15th was one of the most difficult days I'd had in quite some time. It was the first birthday I'd celebrated without my father present, and my heart mourned. I missed him. A bittersweet day, for sure. I don't think that my family quite understood. I tried to smile, to laugh and pretend like nothing was wrong.

The next day while out for a nice run, I happened upon a neighbor who was also jogging. She had lost her mother around the same time that my dad died. We both stopped running, smiled and gave one another a hug. She asked how I was doing, and before I knew it or could stop myself, I said, "I'm fine, but you know, I just had a birthday yesterday, and Ann, it was a very difficult time for me."

Her eyes got huge and she said, "My birthday was on April 8th, and it was one of the hardest days of my life!" We both shared our feelings and before we knew it, a few tears fell. But it was a good cry, as they say. And we both needed to do it.

In a way, even the bad days are special, because they force me to pause, take a deep breath, and look upward instead of focusing on my immediate circumstance. The difficult times continually remind me that God's hand is in all of my days, and He will keep me going, through the good and bad, no matter what.

God's always present, each and every day. He's there, even in the midst of our bittersweet ones.

From Virtues to Vanity

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 18:10:00 +0000

I'm reading a book that has really made me stop and think. In, "Five Conversations You Must Have with Your Daughter," Vicki Courtney articulates how our daughters' views of themselves have changed over the centuries. Specifically, she argues that young teens these days typically have a poor self-image, low self-esteem, and are generally overly consumed with their appearance. Although these sentiments are nothing new or revolutionary, they should make us ponder just what we as moms and women can do to help our daughters feel good about themselves, just the way they are. The way that God made them to be.

Here's something that I found fascinating. The author notes that if we looked at journal entries of young girls, let's say those written more than a century ago circa 1880, the young women often described themselves as being deficient regarding certain aspects of their internal character. For example, they might write about how they will strive to be more patient, or to remember to think before speaking. They might also focus on how they could reach out and help others more consistently.

On the other hand, what do the diaries of today's girls demonstrate? I'll bet that an entirely different perspective pops out. Thanks to skinny models, beautiful women portrayed in movies, and a plethora of teen magazines such as Seventeen, girls probably write about their appearance, such as their weight or their complexion. Much of their concerns most likely relate to their popularity. Virtues? Are they even mentioned?

Why the shift in focus from virtues to vanity? According to the author, one major reason for this paradigm shift can be attributed to an important invention: the mirror.

The mirror has changed the way we see ourselves. Literally. And I am as guilty as the next woman - or man. I hated the way I looked when I was bald. Back then, I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror. I remember loathing walking past a glass storefront because one slight turn of my head in that direction, and my reflection would once again remind me of my ugliness. Even with the wig or scarf intact upon my head, I knew that underneath it all, the real "me" was bald. Vanity. It sticks to you like gum on the bottom of your shoe in August.

Yesterday, I heard my thirteen-year-old daughter commenting - albeit, somewhat jokingly - about how a particular pair of pants makes her look fat. She's about 5'6" and weighs 115 pounds! Where have we failed as a society? Or am I to share some of the blame for her negative perception? Possibly.

As moms, as friends, let's try to see beyond that superficial mirror and focus instead on what's deep inside our hearts. Then, let's look into the hearts of our girls. They need us to be their cheerleaders, to let them know that they are beautiful, just the way God made them to be. Let's hope that we ultimately reflect attributes of God, not those of vanity.

Your Response

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 21:46:00 +0000

"Your response is your responsibility." That's not my quote, but it's one I remember hearing at a Bible study last week, a remark that was stated by a competent family/marriage counselor. In fact, as I watched this previously taped seminar on a DVD, the quote appeared this way on the screen:

Your R-E-S-P-O-N-S-E is your R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y.

There it was, staring me squarely in my face. What a wake-up call. *Blink.*

We cannot change our circumstances, but we are responsible for how we react, and how we respond to each circumstance. Sounds so simple, I know, but the quote made me stop and think, and it caused me to really ponder about my own responses to various situations. When tested, do I react with patience? Am I level-headed when pressed for time? Am I slow to anger, and quick to listen to others' points of view? Do I exude an appropriate amount of confidence yet portray humility when the opportunity arises?

No. Too many times, I'd have to answer "no" to those questions listed above. I have such a long way to go, but that quote was a good reminder to me. I repeated it to my girls, and to my husband. My thirteen year old daughter listened, but kinda rolled her eyes. She's heard me preach that type of sentiment in the past. I hope that she absorbed it, even though it appeared to roll right off her face and onto the floor ... with a nearly audible thud.

Your response is your responsibility. I plan to own that sentiment and practice it - and keep reminding myself of my "responsibility" - for as long as I possibly can! How about you?

Looking Back And Listening

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 12:30:00 +0000

It's funny how looking back at the little things in life can make such a big difference in how you feel right now. While cleaning out the bird feeders yesterday and removing the old, dried seed that was caked along the inside after months of my own neglect, I then refilled them with the new, sweet-smelling seed. All around me, it seemed, the birds chirped loudly from the treetops, as if they were scolding me, asking me to hurry up and finish this task so that they could enjoy their new food. I couldn't help but remember the days when I'd felt too weak and tired to do such a mundane task. Four years ago, while going through the chemotherapy treatments, I remember thinking that because I was newly diagnosed with breast cancer, I would probably die - and die soon. During those long days, filling the bird feeders was not only physically difficult for me to attempt, but my emotional strength was tested in ways that I never thought possible.

At that time my three children were 15, 9, and 6 years old. I remember praying that I would live long enough to see my son graduate from high school, and then when that occasion passed, I prayed to live long enough to see him enjoying his college years. Which is where he is today, a sophomore in college, soon to be a junior.

Looking back four years ago, I remember filling those same bird feeders on that brisk March day, and I recall crying as I prayed to God for Him to give me another season of Spring, or another vacation with my family, or another Christmastime with my children. As I prayed, I could almost hear my kids laughing along the beach. I could hear them tearing open the wrapping paper of their Christmas gifts. But the one thing I really remember hearing is my own voice, as I begged God - day after day - for more times to be with my family.

I still pray those prayers, but at this time in my life, even though the prayers are just as genuine as they were when I was going through the awful treatments, I am now able to pray the prayers with less tears. And with less pleading.

And with more gratitude for what God has given to me.

So today as I look out my kitchen window and notice a few birds enjoying their brand new seed, chirping and flitting about from one feeder to another, I need to remind myself to do something very important. I need to remember to pray to God - each day - and thank Him for giving me this time with my family, with my birds, and with my life.

Looking back makes me look forward with a new song in my heart, and a new outlook on life. I don't ever want to get to a point where I forget to look back. I don't ever want to forget to stop and listen to - and really hear - the songs of the birds.

What Is it?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 23:39:00 +0000

Well, well, what have we here? Any idea what this thing is? I'll let you know what it isn't. It's not a balloon, or a plastic bottle, or anything else man-made.

I'll give you some clues: We found several of these while we were strolling along the beach in the Bahamas. They normally float in the water, waiting for unassuming prey to swim by. Here's the clue that will give it away: They typically have numerous, very long tentacles, stretching out to more than 50 feet in length!

Now do you know what it is? It's a Portuguese-Man-of-War! Quite amazing, isn't it? Just stop and think, for a moment, and ponder one of God's unusual creations. That bluish, air-filled sac enables it to float and drift upon the surface, effortlessly and smoothly, much like a sailboat relies on its sails to navigate across the waters. This creature never really has to search for food, or hide, or retreat, or even think. It just rides the waves ... and waits ... then drifts some more ... and eventually, its tentacles sting a poor, helpless creature, which dies.

I am so glad that I didn't go snorkeling while I was there. In fact, I preferred to stroll in the safety of the water that was merely ankle-deep.

I examined this creature, though, and I couldn't help but wonder about it. I wondered what significance it could possible have in our world. I am sure that it is part of the necessary food chain, and I haven't really researched this animal at all, but I have to say, I just can't appreciate it for anything else than its uniqueness. That's it. Nothing more, just that it is so exceptionally different, and odd, and even sinister, that I can't really understand that it could possibly have a reason for being here at all. No, I just cannot comprehend it.

But then, I don't understand a lot of things. I am content to rely on God, however, for His design is perfect, even down to the existence of this Portuguese-Man-of-War.