Please do touch

I heard the same remark from more than eight people. It went something like, “I thought your sign said, ‘Please don’t touch the prayer shawls.’ But then I realized that it said to touch them!”

I wanted to invite people to touch the shawls because they are not just for the eyes. The feel of the different stitches and fibers is part of the experience of a prayer shawl. You need your hands to understand the warmth, weight and intention in the shawl.

How many ways are we geared to see what we expect, even when we’re wrong? We think the sign says “Don’t touch” even when it says “Touch!” We have habits of limitation that are worth breaking.

Please do touch the prayer shawls!

More from the show

Demonstrating the prayer shawl creation

A shawl about finding a true home and belonging

A shawl about fufillment and purpose

A shawl about making family out of friends

The purple shawl is about how the unknown might be better than the known, the silver is about compassion

A prayer scarf about accepting the gifts from those who have gone before us

A shawl from this Lent about sacrifice and forgiveness

A shawl from this Lent about comfort

A shawl for someone with bright blue eyes and a sparkly personality

This prayer shawl is about happiness and joy

My friends who made the prayer shawl wooden racks for the displays (thank you!)

There are many who have close, supportive and loving relationships with their moms. I’m not one of them.

Non-gushy greeting cards

While my mom was alive, my relationship with her was confusing, complicated and unpredictable. Mother’s Day was an exercise in choosing a card that wasn’t gushy. I avoided anything that said, “Best.” If you haven’t shopped for a non-gushy Mother’s Day card, you’ve missed a challenge. It’s like looking for a Valentine’s card without a heart.

Now that she’s passed on, I don’t have to shop for a card anymore. The rest of my life will be motherless. But my relationship with her hasn’t ended. The resurrection of our relationship happened in forgiveness.

In being a mother myself, I see the impossibility of it. I have the good fortune to be sane. I don’t grapple with mental illness as she did and I still have days where I’m not the patient, loving mom I want to be. In raising my own son and writing my memoir, I understand what she faced and why she failed in the ways she did.

But how would I post that on Facebook? “Here’s a photo of my mom and I have mixed feelings about her.”

Not fitting the idealized picture

Mother’s Day is a hard day for those who have lost their mothers. You might feel like staying in bed and letting the day pass you by. If you are in this group, you’re not alone. It’s OK to feel sad, despite all the wishes of Happy Mother’s Day! Break the rules. If feeling sad because you miss her feels like the right thing to do, then I wish you a Sad Mother’s Day! You’re sad because you loved her.

There is the celebration of children on Mother’s Day. “Look at the flowers my son gave me! Here’s the glittery card they made at school! I was treated to breakfast in bed of Eggs Benedict!” I have the good fortune to have a healthy son right now but I’m aware that it’s not always the case. What about those who have children who are different? Children with developmental issues or health problems, children who will never understand the concept of Mother’s Day, let alone organize making a breakfast for it. Did you see any posts from mothers who wrote, “My son doesn’t make eye contact with me but I love him anyway and I’m doing the best I can to be a good mother.”

I don’t see the painful posts from the women who wanted to become mothers but didn’t. The words of, “I wanted to be a mother but miscarriages/finances/sterility/relationship issues/life got in the way so I’ll never know motherhood.”

What we see on Facebook can make others’ lives seem smooth and happy. If your own life seems grittier, harder and not as happy, consider the possibility of the things not posted.

Invitation to Art Show May 21

Come see for yourself! I invite you to see and touch my prayer shawls during the upcoming MU Staff Art Showcase May 21 from noon to 1 p.m. in Ellis Library, upstairs in room 201, University of Missouri campus. The art show runs from Tuesday, May 21 through Thursday, May 23 if you can’t make the opening. Parking for those off campus is available behind Memorial Union with metered spots (enter from University Avenue to go behind Memorial) or on the top level of Turner Avenue Garage.

When hard times threaten

Imagine you’re facing a hard time in your life.

You are looking at a difficult health situation like cancer or a tough change like a break-up or job loss. You’re not sure where the happy, healthy you is.

You might be feeling the pinch between the time you have to give and the time needed to meet all the requirements of your life. You feel the pressure to be a good parent, a patient caretaker or a reliable friend.

It might be that you wonder if you still matter. Maybe there are other more vibrant people around and you feel faded in comparison.

Comfort for hard times

What you need is an arm around your shoulder and a sense that you’re blessed in all your circumstances, good and bad, bright and dark. You need to know the loving hand of the holy holds you.

What can give you a feeling of protection and comfort? What is a tangible reminder of the spirit?

A prayer shawl made from love, yarn, time and prayers infuses the wearer with warmth in body and spirit.

Four point of prayer shawls

1. Prayer shawls heal the maker

Research shows that doing a repetitive and rhythmic action with your hands such as knitting and crochet has psychological benefits. You have less stress and experience a sense of calm while doing crafts. Combine this action with the contemplative practice of prayer and you have a powerful way to bring body, mind and spirit together.

As a maker, you focus on the moment. When you concentrate on the present, you open yourself to a fresh source of energy. Both prayer and craft combine to draw you out of your worries and into your deeper self.

2. Prayer shawls heal the receiver

As a receiver, you have a healing item to wrap around you. With a gentle weight and cozy curl around your shoulders, you can rest secure in the knowledge that someone took time to make a gift for you. All the prayers, thoughts and hopes that went into the stitches surround you. A prayer shawl around you allows you to feel safe and valued.

You can always have a hug from your friend even if she’s not there. You can put on the prayer shawl when you meditate, want to feel inspiration or need a reminder that you’re loved.

3. Prayer shawls connect the past to the present

We live in a time of rushing, selfishness and distraction. How often are you late for something? How often do you only give someone half of your attention—if even that much—because your mind is already gone to the next place you need to be? Or because you’re out of practice, you don’t pay attention to anything anymore? The act of stopping to sit and crochet while praying on each new loop brings us back to a time when the pace of life was humane. It does us good to slow down and think stitch by stitch, prayer by prayer. It builds our depth of concentration.

In moments of contemplation, we hear the song of the spirit and see ourselves as a small part in a greater whole. Someone made the yarn, someone transported the yarn, someone sold the yarn, someone made the prayers that made the shawl and someone accepted the gift of the shawl.

The texture of yarn sliding through our fingers as we loop it together reminds us that making something by hand is an ancient art, as old as humanity. We haven’t always lived in an industrial, technological age with machines embedded in our lives and devices stuck in our hands. It helps us to have the flexibility of fiber between our fingers, rather than only the flatness of screens and rectangles.

4. Prayer shawls embody the power of simplicity, prayer and caring

A shawl is a simple form of clothing. Women often used shawls so they could stay warm and nurse their babies easily. Many cultures use shawls as protection because they can be fashioned into different items as needed, as a cover from the sun during the day and then wrapped around the neck and shoulders at night. For thousands of years, shawls have protected and decorated us, from the ancient Israelites to modern-day women dressed for a summer wedding.

Prayer can also be simple. A call to the divine can be one word, said with intention.

Caring about someone else is a pure act. To want good things for another brings us out of our selfish concern and focuses our mind on community. Generosity helps everyone. Making an item and giving it away is a bigger stretch than any purchase.

Combine a simple piece of clothing with prayer and affection. Give it away. This is the prayer shawl.

Would you like more information on prayer shawls?

Shawl Ministry

Nancy Monson, Craft to Heal

Blessing

I leave you with this blessing, knit in words, a prayer shawl made of letters for you.

May you feel the presence of God in
hands of the holy on your shoulders with
warmth and weight to feel steady.

In this moment, you can rest.
Your shoulders drop and you relax.

Let the arms of love wrap you
snug to know you’re valued.
You are loved.

May you be at peace in this moment,
the peace of kind hands and wise souls,
the peace of a quiet evening
next to the river where
spring peepers call and starlight gleams,
the peace of friendship offered and accepted.

Peace be with you.

Good news! I reached my goal for 25,000 words in April toward the memoir. My two writing friends also reached their word count goals.

This go-round, I used Scrivener writing software (free trial from Literature and Latte) to lay out the book before I wrote. Wow! It was a world of difference to have an outline and a plan before I wrote.

I wrote about half the speed I did in November. It could take me hours and four cups of tea to get to 1,000 words. It might be the difference between free writing (November-style) vs. writing something another person can make sense of (April-style) but I’m happy with what I have from both times.

I’ll take my draft from November and fill in pieces of April’s draft and see what I end up with. For example, I really liked what I wrote about my childhood newt in November. (You had a childhood newt, too, right? Doesn’t everyone?)

Thank you, everyone, for the encouragement. Your belief in me and my story means more to me than you know.

I’ll keep writing and editing the memoir. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Next week we’ll return to regular blog posts!

Wishing

As we were wiping up at the end of our shift, Mike asked, “You need a ride, hon?”

I said that I did. We made plans and punched out with our time cards on the top of the time clock.

Out in the night air, we walked together to Mike’s red sedan. He opened the passenger door for me.

He drove me up to the 24-hour truck stop just on the edge of town.

We slid into one of the booths. We looked over the stained paper menu

“What looks good?” he said.

“It is after midnight, so I guess technically it’s morning. Maybe I’ll get some breakfast,” I said.

“Breakfast does sound good,” he agreed.

We ordered full breakfast platters and we weren’t disappointed. Our gum-chewing waitress served us long ovals plates of fried eggs, shredded hash browns, hardened bacon strips, shiny sausage links and toast cut into six triangles with a scoop of light margarine on top. Drops of grease dotted the plate edges.

At the counter, a truck driver leaned over his food while his cigarette sat in the ashtray. Outside his truck lights glowed in the mist coming off the St. Croix River next to the diner. He made small talk with the waitress and the cook behind the metal counters.

Mike and I ate our food and laughed. We pretended to fence with our bacon; it was as stiff as swords. He teased me for putting sugar and creamers in my coffee and I called him crazy for drinking it black.

We finished our meal and left the waitress a huge tips. People who have worked in service leave the biggest tips because they know how hard the work is. I can always tell when someone is stingy with the tip that they are spoiled and don’t know what it is to have aching feet.

He opened the car door for me. As we drove, I looked through the patches of cloud and saw a shooting star.

“Quick! Make a wish!”

We talked about shooting stars.

“You know they’re not real stars, sweetie.”

I didn’t. I was disappointed to learn I had been wishing on space debris all that time. But if there was anyone who was going to tell me the truth about shooting stars, I wanted it to be him with his soft eyes and gentle voice. He didn’t tease me for being stupid or not knowing much about how things worked in the world.

“Keep wishing, Gen. Keep wishing on them and hoping for things in your heart. That’s one of the things I love about you, how you get so excited and wish for things.”

* * *

I still wish on stars, 25 years later. Even if it is on space debris, I’m still making wishes. I still hope for things in my heart.

“The boogey man’s gonna get you!” he said.

I was never exactly sure what the boogey man was. I imagined he was tall with long, strong fingers, quick to grab little girls’ legs.

Our house was two stories. Upstairs we had our kitchen, living room, the bathroom, my parents’ bedroom and my room.

Downstairs was the potting studio that opened out to the pool. My father had his own den with dark wood paneling. It smelled of pipe smoke and leather.

My sister’s bedroom was downstairs. It was a tie between her room, and my brother’s beneath the garage for most interesting place.

Her room had a jewelry collection hanging in front of her vanity mirror. The room always had a lingering scent of her spicy musk perfume. The perfume bottle top had a leopard fur button for spraying. She had a saffron yellow dress full of tiny round mirrors from India and a bright purple scarf draped around. She was 13 years older than me and without question, the most exotic person I knew. She seemed to always be leaving, leaving for a date with her boyfriend, then leaving for college when I was four.

My brother’s room smelled of aquarium and teenage boy sweat.

“Stop, you’re gonna overfeed them!” he said as I crumbled soft orange fish flakes over the tank top. I couldn’t help myself. I loved to watch their lips breaking the surface and pinching at the food that smelled like salty shrimp.

He had painted pterodactyls on his walls and they swooped down in a prehistoric sky. The aquarium bubbled. He usually had on the radio, the TV or both. He liked background noise to distract him from the constant whine in his ear, the tinnitus he developed after a bad dive.

I spent many times running up and down the stairs. I never knew when the boogey man would get me. I ran downstairs and GRAB! The boogey man got me! I shrieked! Then I heard my brother’s laugh and I ran down the rest of the stairs. He swept me up and spun me around.

“Better be careful!” he said.

*  *  *

Orange memories

I sat at the table working on my penmanship and spelling. I had sheets of the thin lined paper with red lines for the top and bottom of the letters, and dashed blue lines for the middles.

I had an easy time with some words. Cat, house, man, mouse. But orange seemed like an impossible word. I couldn’t spell it out and I couldn’t make any sense of how to order the letters.

My brother sat down with me at the kitchen table.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “First, draw an orange. Make a circle.”

I made the o.

“Then, think about something you like to do, running. Oranges give you energy to run. What did you do after you ate an orange? You ran. Write ran.”

I added the ran. oran

“Now, you like oranges so much, they have the first two letters of your name. Write ge.”

I put them on. orange

From that day he taught me, I have always spelled it in three pieces. I draw the o, the ran and the first two letters of my name.

I never misspelled orange again.

I haven’t forgotten.

At St. Luke’s, I had a sense of belonging and a job. I was an acolyte. Before the service, I pulled on a white robe and got the brass candle holder that was almost as tall as I was. We made sure the wicks were trimmed.

The service started and it was a feast for the eyes and ears.

Father Jacobs wore floor-length robes, hand-stitched in gold thread in intricate patterns. We sang hymns from the hymn books in front of each pew.

Our noses took in the spicy incense wafting from the brass holder that Father Jacobs swung.

When it came time for Father Jacobs to read from the enormous bible in the aisle, the other candle acolyte and I stood on either side of him with our candles. Our official name was the Torchbearers.

The candle light wasn’t necessary. The bright walls and the stained glass windows kept the church bright. But holding the candle was an important duty.

We sat in a special pew next to the altar. As wiggly eight-year-olds, our attention drifted from the service. We couldn’t resist whispering and cracking ourselves up. The pressure of trying to be quiet made an ordinary comment funny.

Another priest might have fired us as acolytes. Too giggly! Too silly! We could be called. But Father Jacobs answered our giggles with a calm smile and patient look. We settled into the pew and watched the service again.

His kindness quieted us more than another’s anger could have.

I was an acolyte for less than a year but my time serving affects my life today. I still love candles. I carry his kindness like a torch. Not everyone needs it to live by but I offer it just the same.

*   *   *

My mother was a believer in candles. We could walk into any church or cathedral, and if there were candles to be lit, she would light one. St. Luke’s had a place to light them.

The candles were stair-step rows, some flickering from previous people lighting them, some fresh and unlit, some empty of wax with just the wick holder.

She dropped a coin in the box attached in the front and gave me one to put in. My coin clinked as it fell on top of other coins inside. A quarter was a whole week’s worth of allowance and seems like a lot to me for a little candle. A quarter was a significant amount in 1977, as gas was about 65 cents a gallon.

I don’t know what she prayed for. She never said.

She took the punk from the sand and found another candle to light it, then she lit her candle and passed the smoldering stick to me.

“Say a prayer when you light it.”

As a girl, I mixed prayers up with wishes. I imagined the candles at church were the same as candles on a birthday cake, except instead of blowing them out, you light them. I lit the candle and made a wish.

Then we stood. She watched the white candles burn and move. I stood next to her, waiting, not knowing her thoughts.

I was still at the age when I was willing to stand at her side even if I didn’t know what was going on, or how long it would take. I was willing to wait with her then.

(This excerpt is dedicated with love to the memory of my brother, Bruce 1957-2010)

I had my own motorcycle helmet as a child. It was blue with gold flecks.

I was as happy as a dolphin leaping when my brother Bruce told me to go get my helmet. It meant a motorcycle ride.

I put on the black strap under my chin and climbed on behind my brother.

He rode his motorcycle all through the hills and roads of Southern California. I held on for the ride.

He wore a button-down cotton shirt and I grabbed the fabric at his sides as if they were handles. My canvas tennis shoes barely rested on the back pedals.

The wind blew my hair back. I felt fast and strong.

The sound of his bike purred as he opened the throttle. It was a small bike as motorcycles go but I was five years old and the engine seemed more powerful than anything else I knew.

We wound around curving roads that climbed past gated houses. Evening fell. He took me to the top of a hill.

He stopped the bike and turned off ignition.

“Climb down, Genny,” he said. “Let’s take a break.”

With his motorcycle leaning on its kickstand, we stood and looked at the bright and glorious sight that was Los Angeles in 1974.

The city lights glimmered gold as far as I could see. Ocean air mixed with the eucalyptus trees.

For as much as my mother liked talking, my brother liked silence. I could sit for hours with him watching TV and we wouldn’t say a word. We stood in a comfortable quiet watching the lights of LA.

It was a clear night without smog covering the starry night sky.

I don’t know what he thought about. He didn’t tell me. It was his senior year of high school. He was a nonconformist. He wore a leather top hat and drew cartoons. He had a few friends who could appreciate his trouble-making sense of humor but I imagine he felt the pain of not fitting in.

He would start college soon and never finish. He would start drugs soon and never stop.

But I didn’t know that then. I only thought about going places with my strong brother. I felt like we could go anywhere with the motorcycle as our steed to take us.

The gleaming valley under the stars beckoned us with its brightness.

My brother turned and smiled down at me.

He still had hope in his heart then.

I’m participating in Camp NaNo, a spring version of NaNoWriMo, the annual novel writing event in November. Two important aspects of the NaNo movement are a clear due date and a vibrant community of support.

In November, I wrote my first book-length memoir. Almost 100 pages of people, memories and the foolishness of my youth. I felt blessed how the words poured out.

I let it sit for the proscribed six weeks as recommended by Stephen King in his brilliant book, On Writing.

Then I started to edit. Or sludge through unrelated scenes, summaries and free associations in valiant hope to find one strand of a narrative thread. Alas, not a strand! I spent more hours editing than I did writing. I started to wonder where I had gone wrong.

I talked to trusted friends and did some reading. I realized I had too many characters, too many messes and too many places for the story to be readable. Without a narrative thread, 100 pages were too long to follow.

Have you ever spent hours on something only to realize you need to go back and do it all from the beginning?

Do-over

In mid-March, I decided to start from scratch and rewrite the whole memoir. The day I made the decision, I felt a sureness I’d never felt during the weeks of editing.

I needed to write the first draft in November to get it all out. Now I’ll write the second one with the intention to make it readable.

A plan, a pair of friends, a purpose

With an outline prepared, I put strict limits on my characters, scenes and layers. My plan is to show fewer scenes in a slower pace.

I have the good luck to be writing this month with two talented friends who are working on their own books so we can encourage one another to keep slogging when the writing gets tough.

My purpose in writing my memoir is to show how grace and faith—even in amounts as small as a sliver—kept me going and they can get you through your dark times.

I’m putting my writing hours into the memoir so this month I’ll post raw excerpts from what I write. We’ll return to our regular blog posts in May. I hope you’ll enjoy the excerpts and I welcome your feedback!

Here we go!

Broken hand to pray with (working title, excerpt one)

Vacation Bible School

The summer I turned seven, I spent a week in vacation bible school. It must have been the church of someone my parents knew, some mother probably in fear for my soul in light of my non-believing parents. She offered to have me go with her daughter.

I didn’t know the girl, Kristie, well. Every morning, the mother picked me up in a wood-paneled station wagon and drove us to the church. It was a church combined with a school. We went to different classrooms depending on the activity.

The girl was quick to clump to her friends once we shut the heavy doors of her mother’s station wagon. I shuffled between activities as best I could, all the rooms and other kids unfamiliar to me.

On the last day, we learned we would have a contest. I walked into the classroom with excitement. I thought of myself as a lucky person. I won a goldfish at my brother’s high school carnival and often found pennies. I felt I had a good chance in whatever kind of contest this one would be.

“I haven’t seen you before,” said the man in a chipper tone with horn-rim glasses and a grey crew cut.

“I don’t go here,” I said. “We don’t go to church.”

He looked me over and focused his attention on the cleaner, smiling girl settling into the seat next to me. “Well hello there Kristie! How are you doing today?”

Once we sat down, he held up a plastic box molded in beige with brown spray painting on it to make it look aged. It was the size of my hand in length and width, standing about three inches high. It had a lid that came off.

From as long as I remember, I’ve appreciated a good container. Plastic, paper or wooden box, ceramic mug or china teacup, woven basket or stone bowl, I love them all.

Empty, they represent potential. Full, they make random items seem like treasure.

I wanted that box. Through my seven-year-old eyes, it looked wondrous.

The chipper man explained that whichever girl recited the most Bible verses would win the box.

“Study the Bible, girls!” He said as he handed out small Bibles for us to look over. “And you’ll use what you learn the rest of your life.”

We had an hour to look it over. The Bible was an edited children’s version. It included watercolor pictures every few pages. Noah on his ark. Moses parting the sea.

I skimmed the stories and tried to remember them.

The man announced it was time to recite our verses. Girl after girl went to the front and prattled off sayings. Then it was my turn.

I walked up. I could remember nothing. He hinted, “How about, ‘Do unto others…’”

I repeated, “Do unto others.”

“No, do unto others as…”

I stared at him, waiting for more of a hint.

“Do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

I gave him a blank look. It meant nothing to me. What was “do unto others”? What was “done unto you”?

He shook his head.

I walked back and sat down.

Kristie went to the front of the class and recited verses about lights and words, green pastures and sheep. The man gave her the box. We clapped.

As I sat behind Kristie on the ride home, I could see over the front bench seat. Her mom chirped happy words about how proud she was of having such a daughter. With narrow eyes, I watched Kristie take the lid off and fit it back on.

People knew her name. She belonged. She won boxes.

I rode in the back seat, driven by someone who felt sorry for me. I had no box of my own. The car creeped down my steep driveway to drop me off.

“Bye now!” waved her mother in her cheerful voice. Kristie said nothing. She held the box in both hands as she looked at me through the window of the station wagon pulling away.

I dropped the coloring pages in the trash as I walked in the house. Noah, Moses and Jesus rested on top of cantaloupe halves and coffee grounds.

That was my only–and last–experience with vacation bible school.

What have I learned so far? First, commitment counts! I can write when I don’t feel like it. Many evenings, I didn’t feel creative. I could still create because I made the commitment I would.

Second, when I focus on the process—doing and relating, it’s harder to worry about results and effects. These poems were meant to bring me closer to God. I didn’t need to worry about who would think what about them.

Third, a “we” voice lives within me. If you’re familiar with my poetry, you’ll know I’ve been an “I” person in my poems for the past 20+ years. Each time my hand wrote “we,” I wondered where it came from. It’s a nice surprise to write from “we” and not “I”. May it continue past Lent!

Would you like to try something enjoyable and thought-provoking? I invite you to try making poetry as a spiritual practice! You can take as little as five minutes. This is my process.

Read it

I begin with reading Scripture. Before I read, I settle myself and breathe. One of the great problems of our time is our pace of life. I have to slow myself down before I read sacred words. It’s no good skimming!

Use spiritual literature that you find meaningful. It might be your holy book, a poem or a devotion. Meditate and rest in the tiny garden made of wisdom and alphabet letters that seems larger once you are inside it.

Respond to it

After I take in a small amount, I let the words digest. I imagine the scene and inhabit the feelings.

Ready yourself to receive a new understanding.

Ask yourself, What is it like physically? How is the air, the light, the water? What am I experiencing inside the words?

Write it

Then I tip my pen over and let my words pour out.

You might have a critic in your mind who is quick to judge and say, “That’s stupid!” as you write. That’s OK. Say, “Oh well!” right back to the judge and let the words spill onto the page anyway. This is between you and the Holy Spirit. Your inner critic is not part of this particular conversation.

Examples

Here are a couple of examples from my Lenten journey this year. These are unedited, raw words as I wrote them.

February 26, 2013

He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
he restores my soul.
Psalm 23:2

It was a dusty, long walk. We had so much grit
in our throats, we felt like our throats had turned to
sandpaper and we sanded our own
surfaces when we swallowed.

Our feet had long since stopped hurting.
They’d gone past tired to become
wooden boats we drug over rough dirt,
the road a dry stream bed.

We smelled the heat as much as felt it.
It dried our noses and eyes.
Everything had that overbaked smell and
things fluttered in the hot wind.
When he led us to the green meadow,
we collapsed more than lay down.

We put our heads next to the sparkling stream
as if it were a long love song that
we couldn’t hear enough of.
We listened to it sparkle and flirt
with the shore, playful in its splashing.
It was not a stream in a hurry.
It meandered and strolled.
We drank and drank more.
We smiled again and talked.

March 19, 2013

I have so much to write to you but
I would rather not write with pen and ink; instead
I hope to see you soon and
we will talk together face to face.
Peace to you.
The friends send you their greetings.
Greet the friends there, each by name.
3^rd Letter of John 13:15

We were full with words, like an Easter basket
so filled with eggs that
the slightest bump tumbles them out.
We couldn’t wait to be together and laugh in person,
about the misunderstandings,
the unneeded worries,
the overlooked grace.

Final thought

May the hope of Easter live in your heart this week and always!

With the food bills, care needs and short lifespans, a non-animal person might wonder why we give so much to our pets but animal people know how they add liveliness, laughter and warmth to our days.

We learn from these non-human relationships. Practicing kindness to animals teaches us how to be kind to ourselves.

“If you have men who will exclude any of God’s creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men.” ―St. Francis of Assisi (Goodreads)

The human-animal bond brings us wellness, friendship and happiness.

Wellness

Animals keep us healthy. Dogs and horses make us stay active. Whether it’s taking our dogs Mercy and Cookie for a walk around the property or lifting hay bales for the horses, caring for animals keeps me in better physical shape.

They help our psychological health. Research shows that pets help relieve stress. Animals give you someone to focus on other than yourself. During hard times or grieving, the steady presence of a dog or the warm purring of a cat soothes you when few things can.

“It may be a cat, a bird, a ferret, or a guinea pig, but the chances are high that when someone close to you dies, a pet will be there to pick up the slack. Pets devour the loneliness. They give us purpose, responsibility, a reason for getting up in the morning, and a reason to look to the future. They ground us, help us escape the grief, make us laugh, and take full advantage of our weakness by exploiting our furniture, our beds, and our refrigerator. We wouldn’t have it any other way. Pets are our seat belts on the emotional roller coaster of life–they can be trusted, they keep us safe, and they sure do smooth out the ride.” ―Nick Trout (Goodreads via Central Missouri Humane Society)

A friendly face is a great antidote to loneliness. When you come home, you have someone there. They don’t have to check their schedule; they’re always ready to socialize with you!

Dogs excel at reunions. Who doesn’t feel popular returning to a house where a wagging tail awaits you? How would it be if we showed the same level of excitement to our loved ones when they came home, welcoming them at the door with hugs? A feeling of belonging gives us well-being.

Friendship

Some animal friendships are closer than others. My dog, Bu (Sula Bula), was independent in her twilight years. She would take herself down to the pond for a swim and come back for dinner. The warm water must have felt good on her old bones. After dinner, she’d head off for bed.

We decided to adopt a second dog, Mercy, to keep Bu company. I was amazed at the loyalty of our new white spotted dog. Mercy stayed by my side, following me from room to room.

After Bu died, we adopted Cookie. She makes Mercy seem reserved. Next to me is not enough. Cookie’s place is on me. She launches herself with 15 pounds of pure Chihuahua power into my lap whether I’m ready or not.

This morning she got a splash of tea on her head because I wasn’t expecting her. She practices the philosophy of, “Leap toward the lap!” as opposed to “Look before your leap.”

Where people can hold back and worry about looking foolish, she leaps and loves without hesitation.

No matter what I’m doing, Cookie is there. She plays the roles of laundry assistant, barn help and crochet project supervisor. She outdoes herself in the kitchen while on dropped bacon pickup duty; I’ve never seen such focus and concentration. Her closeness can be cloying but for the most part I love having her constant companionship.

We talk to our friends so that means we talk to our pets. Do you talk to your pet? You’re not alone. A study showed that 97 percent of people do (Pets: Good for your health). St. Francis was known to preach to animals. (St. Francis Preaches to the Birds)

Want more interaction with your pet? Make an effort to spend time with your fuzzy friend. Play string chase with a kitty or relax in a sunbath next to the dog. Often, our animals are the ones seeking us out. It does us good to slow down and give affection.

Happiness

The best pet is the one whose face you want to see every morning and every evening. I’m happiest sitting outside where I watch contended horses graze, a dog at my feet and another on my lap. I find the sound of the horses’ chewing and the smell of fresh grass peaceful.

“Where there is peace and meditation, there is neither anxiety nor doubt.” -St. Francis of Assisi (Wikiquote)

It’s a good life. Pets make it even better. Enjoy this video of my animals and others I know and love.

Is there a special animal in your heart? Tell me about him or her in the comments!