Set Free!

 

One seemingly insignificant event changed everything...

When I do chores each morning I take a sheep head count, 12 in the back pasture, 4 in the front, etc.  This morning 1 sheep was missing, my oldest, very old sheep, JoAnn.  She is usually with the flock.  Today she wasn't.

I started calling my typical, "Sheep, sheep sheep" call which brings all my sheep to me immediately.  This time, the flock came without JoAnn.  As I scanned the paddocks I saw an almost imperceptible movement from the very farthest paddock.  Was it my imagination or was it JoAnn responding automatically to her shepherdess' call as she had all her life?

I got to that paddock as fast as I could only to find JoAnn laying on her side, panting, entrapped in the tentacles of a multi flora rose bush.  It was obvious she did not have much time to live-sheep can bloat to death if they are on their side for too long.

I got JoAnn on her feet and left briefly to get trimmers to cut her out of her entanglement.  Within minutes she was free--a little wobbly but free--seemingly unaware she almost died.  And,  she wasn't the least bit grateful for my intervention or acknowledged me as she ran to meet the flock.  I had just saved her life but she couldn't have cared less.

I remember memorizing Psalm 23 when I was a child in Vacation Bible School.  Back then, I memorized it so I could win a prize.  Now I recite it from memory because He is My Shepherd--which makes me His Sheep.

Today I call myself a part-time shepherdess, full-time sheep since I've cared for sheep for 18 years. It's been quite the interesting adventure.  It's also been quite the blessing. 

The fact Christ is called The Good Shepherd and also The Lamb of God is not lost on  me.  Those metaphors touch me so deeply at times as I tend to my sheep, almost bringing me to tears. 

I look over my flock and I know them all by name because they are my sheep--the sheep of my pastures.  Just like Christ--The Good Shepherd--knows me by name because I am His. 

When I call my sheep to me they come because they know my voice just as those who are Christ's "sheep" come when He calls:  "My sheep know my voice, and I know them and they follow me." (John 10:27).  

I could write for hours about the way Christ has met me--encouraged me--loved me in my earthly role as a shepherdess.  I could go on for days about His tenderness as a Shepherd to me personally--his often times rebellious and ungrateful sheep.  These could understandably be words written in vain for those who have never spent a day as a shepherd. 

But there is one thing we can all comprehend and internalize regardless of our vocation in life.  This Good Shepherd/Lamb is also The: King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God, Prince of Peace, Alpha and Omega, Everlasting Father and so much more. So very much more.

The King of Kings came to us as a baby in a humble manger secreted away from the world.  Not exactly how we would think the Savior of the world should or would show up.

But that one seemingly insignificant event changed everything forever.  For everyone.

We were destined to be entrapped in the tentacles of sin and death with no way out--ungrateful sheep with no Shepherd to free us from ourselves, maybe caring little about the sacrifice made for that freedom. But that one event--which had been planned before the world began--gave us a way to forever leave those things behind that bind us on earth, to be set free forever.

That one event was just the beginning of the most magnificent continuing love story of all time, and the day will come when all who are His Sheep will live forever in His pasture. His beloved sheep that He knows by name.  Every one He knows by name.

And as I sit in my barn at night watching my sheep--their quiet contentment at being safe and secure in my care resonates deeply in my soul.  They are my sheep, I am their shepherd. I am His Sheep, He is my Shepherd.

I am His and He is mine.  And when on my final day on earth He calls I will go to Him because I know His voice.  I will heed my Good Shepherd's call as I have all my life. Forever set free.

Shepherdess Blog
Copyright 2018
Jackie Deems

The door was abruptly slammed, shut and locked 8 years ago,

6 years ago it was bolted and barricaded...

Eight years ago any semblance of civil family relationship was shattered.  I have to say I was not privy to why it happened this time (it had happened before but not to this extent). I only know it happened and I was on the receiving end of a lot of hatred. 

I suspected it was initiated by someone I had also long suspected was mentally ill.  Out of a respect for privacy that person won't be named. Suffice it to say it's a very close family member.

They were a crippling blow--an emotional sucker punch--those very much on purpose hateful words that cut me off from much of my immediate family.  It took a lot of time and introspection, tears and prayers, to forgive, get over it and get on with life.  But I did.  And I was okay.

Until 2 years later when my nephew died in an accident and the gates of fractured family hell opened seeking to swallow me whole, and a phone call came telling me I was not to attend my nephew's funeral services.  My husband was not welcome either.  This final cruel act was once again orchestrated by that same close family member.

To understand how devastating that act was you would have to understand the relationship I had with my nephew.  I won't go into great detail about that either--there are no words to make you fully understand any ways--but he and I just really got each other.  We loved each other deeply and pretty much unconditionally.  To lose him at the age of 24 was beyond devastating. To not get to formally say goodbye--to see him one last time--well, it was soul crushing.

But again, after much time, introspection, tears and prayers I was able to forgive, get over it and get on with life.  A good life.  A life minus some family members but a good life just the same.

Somewhere deep inside I felt, I hoped, the door that had been abruptly slammed, locked and barricaded may some day finally be left slightly ajar. But as year after year passed that feeling of hope wavered and seemed more like a fairy tale with a cruel ending where no one lived happily ever after.

Until today, 8 very long years later. I received an unexpected email from one of the people who had so abruptly and easily dismissed me from their life as if I never mattered to them in the first place,  as if I was merely unfeeling collateral damage. 

They apologized.  Eight years later they apologized.  Though I knew I had forgiven them years ago, they didn't know.  I took a deep breath and responded, telling them I had indeed forgiven them already and thanked them for the apology.

I want to believe this olive branch was extended so that we could move forward in some sort of healthy relationship.  But I am no fool and I remember past encounters much too well. History has shown that dealing with some of my family members is like using a paper wasp nest as a pinata expecting not to get stung.  Sting me once, shame on you, sting me twice well, you know the rest. 

I have forgiven but it will be hard to trust again.

Still--still, the door is finally ajar and a very slight ray of light now pierces the place that was shrouded in cold, silent darkness for what could have been forever.

I don't know if the door will stay ajar and I also don't know if it will ever be open far enough for me to walk through it.  Some doors are better left closed.  This could very well be such a door.  Time will tell.

I only pray if and when that time comes--if the door is ever fully opened--I will have the wisdom to decide if I should go through it and the courage to face what's on the other side if I do.

  

Shepherdess Blog 

Copyright 2018

Jackie Deems

The Emptiness Of A Full Bowl

I must have been crying in my sleep...

I woke up with wet cheeks and swollen eyes.  It's my first morning without Lola.  

She did not meet me at the bedroom door to say hello and be petted.  Our usual morning routine consisted of me sitting on the top step to pet Lola and Mercy as they purred and meowed and told me in detail of their interesting night time adventures.

It is my first day without Lola jumping from place to place in my path trying to get me to stop long enough to pet her.  Really pet her.  And I did, more times than I could ever count over the past 5 years. Each time I would tell her she had to live for at least 20 more years.

She and her sister, Nalla, were rescued bottle babies that I fed every 4 hours round the clock for what seemed like weeks that would never end.  I would do it all over again now--a thousand times over--to have my Lola back.

When she was only 6-weeks-old Lola changed--she was less active--and I knew there was something very wrong with her.  After numerous local vet visits it was determined Lola needed more help than what they could give her. 

For 3 weeks I slept with Lola's tiny body wrapped around my neck in 90 degree weather--like a little furry loudly purring collar--so I could keep an eye on her.  I slept very little and very lightly those few weeks as I had when I bottle fed, afraid I would miss something.  Afraid I would lose my Lola.

After one particularly difficult night I knew I had to get Lola to a vet clinic that could do more testing.  I just felt I had to try and see if there was help for Lola.  

My dear friend, Mary Ann, drove Lola and I to Columbus so I could hold my little, furry bundle.  It was a very scary hour and a half drive since Lola was getting out of breath.   I held her and looked her in the eyes and told her to fight.  "Look at me, breathe Lola.  You have to be okay.  Hold on".  And she did.

Long and short of it, if she wasn't kept in an incubator and didn't have heart surgery she'd die.  Likely in a few hours. The cost for the surgery was more than I could ever hope to pay up front but since I was a rescue I could make payments.

I prayed and cried (sobbed from fatigue and sadness) and felt peace that I should go ahead with the surgery for which there was a 90% survival rate.  I called my husband and after hearing my breaking heart he said we would find a way to pay for Lola's surgery.  The surgery was a success. Lola healed very quickly and her zest for life was miraculous.

Six months after Lola's surgery, and on the Friday before Christmas I received a phone call from the clinic telling me someone, a person I'd never met, had paid Lola's entire vet bill off.  I cried tears of joy and thankfulness to God.

Lola became fearless, climbing everywhere as she got older and I called her my flying monkey--continually knocking things over in the wake of her never ending search for just the right place to perch at least for a few moments. 

After her heart surgery, Lola had never been sick a day in her 5- year-life.  Until recently.  She was just diagnosed with Diabetes yesterday and I administered her first unit of insulin in the afternoon.  I was glad to have a diagnosis and a way to help Lola once again.

All day I had an uneasy feeling and checked on her constantly.  I hugged her and snuggled her more than usual and told her how much I loved her, her beautiful sea green trusting eyes cutting me to the bone--the same trusting eyes of the 9-week-old kitten that knew everything would be okay as long as we were together.

Finally, I had to do evening chores and left Lola for 20 minutes.  When I came to check on her she was breathing her last.  I tried to revive her, told her I loved her--pleaded with her to breathe--to hold on--but this time she could not.  And so I held her with her face turned up and as our eyes met she knew she was loved, she was safe.  We were together.

And I have cried, unashamedly sobbed.  I am not a crier, perhaps because I rescue and see so much sadness.  I see so much death.  Perhaps the tears I am shedding for Lola are intermingled with the tears not shed for others over the years--the tears I swallowed until I could not any more--the sorrow left unspoken when a light is extinguished.

I am no stranger to these kinds of tears.  I have shed them before when my son died after watching him leave me inch by inch--a terminal illness taking his life. I have shed them when my nephew, grandpa, grandma, dad and other loved ones have left.  The intensity of grief is at times different--at times the same--when you lose an everyday part of your life be it human or otherwise.  When you lose unconditional love.

To those who think it's absurd to grieve over the loss of an animal as you would a person, to those who think people who love their animals care "too much", to those who have never loved an animal deeply I say--I feel truly sad that you've never given even a part of your heart to an animal. You have missed much in your life and don't even know it.

Why was Lola so special?  Quite simply, God made her that way and He gave her to me at a time I needed hope that if a little furry 9-week-old very sick kitten could survive against all odds--to get through this life regardless of any obstacle--then I could too.

And I have and I will and I am thankful for memories of my Lola: her monkey-like ways, her snuggles, her independence, her soft meow, her laying in the bathroom sink so I would pet her, her trusting sea-green eyes, Lola fur everywhere, her never-ending appetite--my attempts to keep her and her food bowl full.  

Yes, I think that will be the hardest to bear, the emptiness of a full bowl.  Lola's bowl.

Shepherdess Blog

Copyright 2018

Jackie Deems

Just When Did I get "Old"?

                                                            My 90-year-old mom

Don't ever ask a young child how old they think you are...

I recently spent time with a friend's young grandchildren and was amused by some of their questions. 

  

Them: Why are your teeth not very white?  

Me: They're old and the over the counter whiteners don't 
work well for me.  

Them: Did you know some of your teeth are gold?   

Me: Yes, that's how they used to fill teeth back in the pioneer days. 

 Them: What are those brown spots on your face?   

Me: They're called age spots.  They are there because I am old.

Them: How old are you? This question is usually better answered by the person being asked because these particular children think I am probably about 103.

I get it.  I have opted not to continue dyeing my hair so it's grayish/whitish/whatever.  When I was a young girl I remember thinking my next door neighbor, Mrs. Heinold,  was at least 
150-years-old because she had grayish/whitish/whatever hair too. 

I also remember a conversation several years ago with a woman well into her 80's.  She told me she had gotten quite a surprise when she looked in the mirror that morning, "I was shocked to see an old woman staring back from the mirror and I wondered just when did I get old?  Inside I still feel like a girl of 18.  I guess that's because the Spirit never ages so you always feel like you're still young regardless of what the mirror reflects."

As I thought back to both conversations I realized that getting "old" is a privilege not a right.  We somehow seem to take it for granted that we will live to be old even though we know many who die too young like my son, Richie, who only lived to be 20-months-old or my nephew, Phillip, who died unexpectedly at the age of 24.  

I am reminded of the 70's commercial for hair color that said, "You're not getting older you're getting better".  And I wonder if I am really getting better or if am I just getting older? Good question.

I hope I am becoming a better person the older I get.  I also hope that some of the life lessons--these things I've learned--may be helpful to others regardless of their age...

Life isn't fair.  It's just not.

No one else is responsible for your happiness but you.

Being kind to others doesn't cost a thing.

Possessions can't make you deep down to the soul happy.

Common sense is really not so common.

No one can fulfill all your needs and you can't fulfill all of
 someone else's needs either.

Work is called work for a reason. Many people don't like their jobs or some part of their jobs.  That's life.

If you don't forgive others, you can't live your life 
to the fullest.

Allow yourself and others to be imperfect and make mistakes because no one is perfect.  No one.  Even you.

No matter what you say or do, there is always someone 

who will find fault or disagree with you.

Standing up for what you believe in can be hard, 

especially if you're standing alone. Keep standing any ways.

If you make a promise keep it.  If you can't keep it, 
explain why.

The customer isn't always right.  Nobody is.

Forgive people for the dumb things they say to you and hope they forgive you for the dumb things you say to them too.

Some of the toughest looking people have the 

most tender of hearts.
Don't let pride get in the way of saying you're sorry.

Admit when you're wrong. 
Always say "please" and "thank you".
You don't have to say everything you are thinking out loud.

Everyone is here for a reason at this moment, this place, this time. Find out what your reason is, embrace it and run with it.

Honesty is truly the best policy and it's easier to swallow with a spoonful of sugar. 

Don't take yourself too seriously.  Learn to laugh at yourself--often and loudly.

People will disappoint you and you will disappoint them.   

Get over it and move on.

There will always be someone who is: younger, thinner, 

better looking, richer, smarter, etc. than you so just be 

the best you there is.

Happiness is a choice you make every moment of each day.

Judging others says more about you than it says about them.

Even in the darkest moments there is always  
something to be thankful for. 

You can always find something to compliment others about no matter who they are, no matter what they look like. 

Not everyone will be your best friend or biggest fan and 
that's okay.

Time does not heal all wounds but it can soften them 
and make them more bearable.

People will gossip about you no matter who you are or how hard you try.  Shake it off and go on with your life.

 Raise your children to be loving, caring, responsible, compassionate people then let them go and 
have their own lives.

Treat others how you want to be treated. 
Don't expect others to be as passionate about your 
passions as you are unless it's their passion too.

Love matures and changes over time but that's okay, it's still love.

Many folks who say they want you to tell them the truth really just want you to agree with what they think the truth is.

 The only constant about life is that it always changes. 

Sooner or later, everyone and everything that 
draws breath dies. 

There are many, many people in this world 

who would absolutely love and appreciate the life you have.

You never really know what someone else is going through--what personal demons they are fighting.  Some people who have been hurt the most wear the biggest smiles. 

Be more concerned about who you are than what you have.

It's better to have a handful of true friends than a room filled

 with fair weather "friends". 

You and only you are responsible for the choices you make.
Don't judge a book by its cover, take the time to 
open it up and read it. 

Some broken relationships cannot and should not be mended.

Continually living in the past only robs you of your 
present and future happiness.
The older we get, the less we are concerned about what
others think of us.

Laughter is the best medicine for the soul--that and love.

Forgive others even if they don't apologize.
Worry is a huge waste of time and energy.  It just is.
 The grass is only greener on the other side until 
you've been there for a while. 
Even the most broken of hearts can be mended. 

 Doing the best you can do is good enough.

Don't be afraid to dream big no matter what others say.

Those who die with the most toys lose if that's all they 

have to show for their time on earth. 

The best things in life truly are free.

  Every day, every moment is a gift from God

 that you will never have again so 
live each day to the fullest. 

Shepherdess Blog

Copyright 2018

Jackie Deems

What Will I Miss?

What will I miss when I am gone?

The exquisite beauty of a sunrise

Lightning Bugs in the Summer Sky

The haunting call of a Mourning Dove

Autumn's magnificent splendor

The sun kissing my upturned face

A child's laughter

What will I miss when I am gone?

The sound of rain on the roof

A friend's hug

The tart sweetness of a caramel apple

Laughing so hard I cry

The first songbird of Spring

Purring and kneading

What will I miss when I am gone?

The sound of crickets in the wee hours

Eating Wild Blackberries straight from the bush

The comforting words of a friend

Burying my face in blooming lilacs

The soft grass under my bare feet

Magnificently painted sunset skies

What will I miss when I am gone?

The silent beauty of snow covered hills 

Unexpected kindness

The smell of linens fresh from the clothesline

Being still

The feeling of sand between my toes

 Watching a baby sleep

What will I miss when I am gone?

 The sound of a loved one's voice

A kiss on the cheek

The smell of fresh-baked bread

Sitting in the dark with the Christmas lights on

The crashing of ocean waves

A wet nose and wagging tail 

What will I miss when I am gone?

The brilliance of a full moon

Hot chocolate with marshmallows

The chiming of an old clock

Walking in the woods

The comfortable silence between dear friends

Precious memories of my son

All these things and more I will miss when I am gone,

but only for that brief moment...

before I see my Father's Face.

Shepherdess Blog

Copyright 2018

Jackie Deems

The Last Cat

Mr. Riley's favorite cat, Grandma

The first time I saw Mr. Riley (name has been changed) he was dragging an oxygen tank slowly, deliberately, as he walked the roads of our village stopping every few feet to catch his breath.  This frail, bone thin man smiled a toothless grin as he refused a ride home from me. I made it a point to find out where he lived.

I couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Riley and later that week I stopped by his home for a visit. The broken concrete back steps of his house were littered with all types of food in waxed cardboard trays--everything from peas to rice to some kind of unrecognizable meat (I think). He was an obvious recipient of a Meals on Wheels type of program.

Why was the food provided to him on the broken steps?  One look at him made it abundantly clear he needed that food.  I knocked on the door and when he answered he explained that the food was for the many stray cats in the village.  He couldn't afford to buy cat food so he shared the little bit of food he had with the hungry cats. 

Though I barely had enough money to feed my own rescue cats, I knew I had to find a way to help him feed his.  He accepted bags of food (reluctantly at first) but as he became more comfortable with me he was appreciative of any help I could give him, swallowing his pride to help his cats.

It wasn't long before Mr. Riley was calling me for help to get some of the cats he fed off the streets.  He worried about them and fretted they would be hit on the road or poisoned by cruel cat hating village residents.  Though they were feral cats, caring for them--even from afar--gave him purpose and a reason to get up each morning.  Talking about them put a smile on his worn face.

Mr. Riley had been widowed several years earlier and his beloved wife loved cats. His nickname for her was Kitty. When he invited me into his home, the walls were adorned with cat pictures.  I suspect he hadn't moved a thing in the house since his wife died as a way to keep his memories of her even more alive. He'd even made a pallet on the living room floor to sleep on, he couldn't stand to sleep in the same bed alone he'd shared with his wife.

Visiting Mr. Riley in his home was a double edged sword; it was truly an honor he bestowed on few people but he chain-smoked and used an oxygen tank full-time.  I was understandably uneasy to stay in his house long and each time he lit a match I silently prayed for our safety.  I love cats, don't get me wrong, I just wasn't sure I wanted to die because of them.

I heard through the village grapevine Mr. Riley had recently been diagnosed with Lung Cancer. He already had Emphysema and I wasn't sure how long he'd be able to live in his home alone.  I also knew he was very worried to leave his cats behind since he thought no one else would feed, care for or love them.

About 2 years after I met Mr. Riley I received a phone call from his son-in-law telling me he'd been taken by squad to the hospital.  Mr. Riley told his son-in-law to call me and ask me to feed his cats until he came home, which I gladly did.

The next phone call I got from the son-in-law was grave. Not only was Mr. Riley not coming home, he was also not long for this earth.  I was surprised at the lump in my throat and the uncontrollable tears that flowed when I heard the news. I realized in that moment that Mr. Riley and I were truly kindred spirits.  Though we couldn't have been more unlike each other, this frail man had a lion's heart and unwavering love and compassion for helpless creatures.  He was a rare unexpected find, indeed.

Mr. Riley also rekindled a hope I had unknowingly lost over the many years I've been rescuing--a hope that there were others who cared deeply about people and animals in need--a hope that kindness was not just a word but an everyday way of life.

As a rescuer you most often see the worst in people--abuse, neglect, hatred, cruelty--people who wouldn't give a starving animal a crumb of food if you paid them.  But once in a while you come across a Mr. Riley who would give hungry animals his own food--even his very last crumb. 

And I also learned from my time with Mr. Riley that rescue is not always just about helping the animals, it's about helping people too.  The commonality of love for animals builds a bridge to some closed off hearts otherwise impossible to reach. Many times these hearts and souls were hurt horribly by people so they find a home--a safe place--in loving, nurturing and caring for animals.

When I got the call Mr. Riley would not be coming home I prayed God would help me achieve one last thing for him.  I wanted to be able to call Mr. Riley and tell him I had gotten all his cats safely into my rescue--22 in all--before he passed away.

After 2 weeks of live trapping all times of the day and night I got every one of his cats into my rescue and I was thrilled to finally make the call to tell Mr. Riley all his cats were safe.  I hoped it wasn't too late.

Though he didn't have the breath to talk on the phone, Mr. Riley's son-in-law told him all his cats were off the streets. Mr. Riley mouthed the words,  "Did she get grandma" (his first and favorite cat).  She was the last cat I had caught--watching all the other cats enter the live trap--eluding capture until the very end. 

When he heard even grandma was safe his son-in-law told me Mr. Riley smiled bigger than he'd seen him smile for a very, very long time--the way he used to smile when Kitty was still with him. Then he sighed deeply, his frail frame relaxing.  His cats were safe in my care.  His work was done.  He could go peacefully.

Two weeks later Mr. Riley passed away and was finally reunited forever with his beloved wife Kitty.

Shepherdess Blog

Copyright 2018
Jackie Deems

As I sat in church yesterday morning I noticed the elderly man sitting directly in front of me was continually hugging his wife, patting her back and kissing the top of her disheveled hair. The overt attention seemed a bit out of place yet somehow endearing at the same time. 

As we had our usual "meet and greet" time--shaking hands with those seated around us in the sanctuary--I saw the unmistakable  vacant look on the wife's face.  

I knew that look, in a split second it pierced my soul and took my heart back to that place and time when I cared for my dear Erica.

We'd first met at a bereavement group I facilitated.  Erica was a wee lady in stature (4' 10") but her lion's spirit was very apparent even from the start.  She'd been widowed twice and was never able to have children.   Erica was alone in this world, very alone.

We instantly bonded and I became like the daughter she had always desperately desired but could not have.  We shared poetry and music and just "being".  

Erica was quirky and secretive about much of her past--very private, very much the dignified lady at all times. She always said she needed me more than I did her, but I knew nothing could have been further from the truth.

One day as we sat listening to music she asked if I would take care of her when she could no longer take care of herself.  I immediately agreed to do so, very much aware of the honor she had just bestowed on me. 

For years after that conversation we enjoyed each other's company, contentedly sharing our life together.  Until the day I allowed myself to acknowledge that something had changed in Erica. This very rational, highly intelligent woman was beginning to say some pretty unusual things followed by some pretty unusual actions.

Per her request, I accompanied her to the doctor's office where we heard the diagnosis together.  Erica had dementia. There were no words to share. The only sound in the room was of 2 broken still somehow beating hearts.  Our eyes met, neither wanted to shed a tear trying to spare the feelings of the other.  So we swallowed silent, grief-filled tears.

Our journey through dementia lasted a little over 7 years and was filled with many memories that still deeply resonate in my heart. We struggled with each new phase. We laughed a lot. We got angry. We cried out loud. We loved fiercely.  We prayed together.  Even at the end of her life and when all else had been forgotten, Erica still prayed with the fervency and intimacy she had since I first met her.

She eventually forgot who I was and at times I became her: neighbor, friend from church or non-existent sister.  As Erica spoke of having lunch with her brother who had died 20 years earlier--her serene countenance revealed what I thought I already knew.

She was finally at peace.  I was the one left behind to live in the reality of  the life Erica no longer knew or had or cared anything about.  Though it was excruciatingly hard to bear at times, I could never leave her behind.  I could not break my promise to take care of her when she could no longer take care of herself.

In the end I was with her and in the last gaze we shared I saw an inkling--a mere flickering ghost of recognition then a faint, serene smile that said: "I know you.  I love you. Thank you. I'll be waiting for you".

Shepherdess Blog
Copyright 2018
Jackie  Deems 




Will you still remember me,
when I no longer remember you?
Will you recall the words I said,
those things we used to do?

When I no longer know your name,
or recognize your face-
will love step in and rescue me,
or will sadness fill that space?

Will times we shared be in the past,
replaced by here. by now?
I long so much to change what is,
if only I knew how.

When darkness falls and night is near,
our love won't be erased.
Dear one please know deep in my soul,
no one can take your place.

Jackie Deems
Copyright 2018

Letting Molly Go

I knew this day would come but also knew 

I'd never be ready for it...

Molly was just 6 months old when my husband and I drove 3 hours to meet her.  Molly and her litter mates had been guarding goats and when they were sold their owners no longer needed guards.

All but 1 of the Great Pyrenees Pups came to greet us. The one who didn't was Molly. She had her back turned to us and her face buried in the corner of the barn trying her best to be invisible.

"That's the one I want", I said pointing to Molly.  Both her owner and my husband tried to talk me out of it. But I already knew she was my girl. 

The whole drive home Molly had her back turned to us in the car not even acknowledging my voice. When we got home I introduced her to the "her" sheep and she looked up at me for the first time and her brown eyes smiled--overjoyed to have a job.  At that moment I became her person, her only person for the entire 14 years of her life.

We had gotten another guard puppy 2 months earlier and, due to my inexperience and lack of knowledge I did not realize it was best to have 2 pups together in the pasture so they could play and guard together.  The first dog had decided to chase the sheep out of sheer boredom and just because it was fun, I suppose. 

 When Molly stepped into the pasture and saw the other dog chasing sheep she alpha rolled the bigger dog (that was twice her size) and pinned her to the ground.  Molly's number 1 rule was established: Do not chase or harass her sheep.  Though she was the smallest of our guards she also established herself as the alpha.

Two days after Molly came to our farm lambing began and the sheer joy this dog exuded was palpable.  She looked up at me and smiled as if to say, "More sheep, you gave me more sheep". Ewes that had twins actually allowed Molly to dry off one of their newborns as mom took care of the other lamb.  Some of the lambs even followed Molly around the pasture half convinced she was their mom.

I can't explain the peace of mind I had with Molly guarding in the pasture.  Since the pasture she guarded butted up into dense woods I knew coyotes would be tempted to snatch a lamb before I would even notice.  During Molly's lifetime we never lost 1 sheep to predators even though we could hear coyotes often calling nearby in the middle of the night.  However, over the years I did find an assortment of unfortunate raccoons, skunks, possums and other small perceived "predators" that had met their end in Molly's pasture.

As we added sheep to our farm we also added more Great Pyrenees and Pyrenees/Anatolian crosses--6 pups in all--and Molly trained every one of them. Though she never had pups of her own, she became a surrogate mom to those she trained.  If not for her and the "Molly Factor" on our farm, we could not have safely raised our 2 breeds of Miniature Wool Sheep--Shetland and Babydoll.

So many years and so many memories of Molly come to my mind and echo achingly in my heart as I think back over the time I had with this dear girl: 

 -Molly, staying with a lamb separated from the flock barking until I found them both.
-Molly, sitting on top of the highest hill she could find watching for predators.

-Molly, bringing a few "lost" sheep to the safety of the barn from a bottom pasture during a blizzard--breaking a path for them in the deep snow.
-Molly, keeping watch in the barn with me during lambing season.

-Molly, standing between her sheep and any perceived threat--even if that "threat" was my husband.

-Molly, sitting next to me as I tended to a sick or dying sheep.

-Molly, and her "boyfriend" sheep sleeping peacefully together--she lying with her head on his side.  

-Molly, frightened by thunder and fireworks seeking comfort from the terrifying sound by burying her face in my lap as we sat in her barn together.

-Molly, her soft brown eyes looking into mine with so much love I thought our hearts would burst.

As is the case many times with those we love, it is easy to not see the changes that happen right before our eyes. I think that's because the eyes of love are veiled, perhaps because we cannot admit the inevitable is happening.  Someone we love is aging. Someone we love is dying.

And so it was with Molly.  She had slowed down this winter but would not stand to be separated from her sheep so, I set up a comfortable warm spot in the barn where she could be with them. My goal was to get her through winter to warmer weather.  And, we were almost there.

This winter she enjoyed many cans of dog food and treats, lots of love and encouragement from me, the company of her sheep and another guard dog she had trained 8 years ago. She was content.

Every day she got up and followed her sheep around.  Every night she laid in the hay with them as they slept. As always, even the slightest noise would wake her--ever the faithful guard. 

This morning was different.  I went out to do chores to find Molly softly whimpering, unable to sit up. I worked with her and she finally sat up and ate some canned food then went back to sleep. 

It wasn't until that moment that my veiled eyes--momentarily unveiled--saw the Molly that truly is (the aging guard), not the one that had been (the shy younger girl with the indomitable spirit).  My Molly was suffering and for the first time in her life she told me so. She'd never been sick a day in her life.

As Molly aged, I had hoped she would choose her time to leave so I would not have to.  But she was not going to leave me or her sheep peacefully on her own and I could not let her leave this world painfully.

Through my veiled, tear-filled eyes she was asking if I could let her go, if I loved her that much.  She had done so much for me how could I not do this one last thing for her?  So I made the call and the vet came to our farm and Molly breathed her last in the field where she had lived her whole life with her beloved sheep.

I don't know if I will ever see Molly again and I think (at least right now) I am okay with that.  I guess it's enough for me that I have been privileged to see this girl for 14 years--loved her and shared her life.  And I will still see her every day of my life as long as I live.  Even if I lose my memory my heart will never forget my Molly.  She owns a piece of it I can never reclaim and she has been one of the greatest gifts God has given me in my entire life.

The last thing I said to my Molly every night (her whole life) as I left her was, "You're in charge tonight, Molly. You're in charge.  I love you Molls".  And I do believe that if there's a celestial sheep flock Molly will be there guarding it.  And, she will be in charge.  She will be in charge.

Molly meets newborn lambs

Molly pinning Daisy for chasing "her" sheep

Molly and one of "her" lambs



Shepherdess Blog
Copyright 2018
Jackie Deems

On April 2, 2018, just a few days after losing Molly I called my vet to double check Molly's age.  They showed her to be 14 years of age, not 11 as I originally wrote in this blog.  The blog was changed to reflect Molly's true age.
Because Molly was such a small Great Pyrenees, between 70-75 pounds (at her heaviest) she would have been considered a medium-size dog which could have given her a longer life span than a larger dog of her breed.
Whether it was Molly's size, determination to live or by God's design (I believe it was a combination of all these things) I am grateful to have had her for as long as I did.