The Secret of the Shadow Box

When I was 20 years old I made a crude shadow box for my dad.  He was the kind of person who already had everything but, he didn't have a shadow box depicting many of the things he liked doing most: hunting, fishing, flying his small private plane.

When I gave it to him he seemed genuinely pleased, or at least as pleased as my dad ever seemed.  He was always difficult to read and he spoke few words.  Those he did speak (in his deep base voice) would scare any child speechless as they did me when I was a young girl.

Though my dad was surrounded by people all his life, he somehow lived a very singular life.  Even when I was young I felt deep down he was a tortured soul. His hair trigger anger often boiled over and spilled out onto his 4 children--children he could not even begin to understand. I'm not sure he even tried to. Or did he?

My parents divorced when I was 9 years old and visits with my dad were scarce.  He did take us to see his parents many miles away every summer but we, his children, were always on our best behavior when we were with him.  Remembrances of his explosive temper never faded and we felt like his volcanic anger could erupt and spew out angry words or violent actions at any time.  Obviously, that meant there were few warm fuzzy interactions with my dad over the years.

When I became an adult he seemed to be more comfortable with me than when I was a child but, he still left the reaching out to me.  There was a 10-year span when my dad did not call me and if I hadn't called him we would have never spoken.  

Quite honestly, I always felt like I was in the way of what he really wanted to do with his life.  But I never figured out what that was. I'm not sure he did either.

My dad seemed always to be searching for something and I think his hunger for recognition--to be someone "important" was the driving force in his life.  

But the dad I had become used to changed when my young son, Richie, was diagnosed with a terminal illness.  For whatever reason, Richie was a strong magnet my dad's steely façade could not resist.  He was drawn to Richie in a way I'd never seen before in my life.

My dad made it a point to regularly keep in touch with me and once a month he and his wife drove a good distance to gather with me and my adult siblings.  The real draw was Richie, though.

When Richie died, my dad was one of the first people to call me and offer to come alongside me through the funeral process.  He was there from beginning to end and it was the first time I think I'd ever seen my dad cry.  No, he wept, actually.  

At the funeral home the night before Richie's funeral my dad's heart finally broke.  As he said goodbye to Richie in that dimly lit room he cried as he hung onto the tiny casket.  The casket shook and rocked and I thought he was going to upset the casket's pedestal. 

I cried too from just around the corner, crying apart from my dad not wanting to intrude on this intensely private man's grief.

Sadly, I also cried apart from my dad because I was not sure I would be welcome even in the very shadowy fringes of his grief.

I'd like to say my son's short life and death completely changed my relationship with my dad for the better.  Things did change for a time, but only for a short time.

He and his wife retired to a state far from their kids and grandkids.  My dad wanted to do this for a couple reasons: so he could fish every day (his home was a few blocks from a lake) and he wanted to be far enough away so that his kids and grandkids could not visit often if at all.  If you did visit his home, you were not welcome to stay there neither were you to visit for more than a few days.

The last visit I had with my dad was unbelievably wonderful.  He actually wanted to sit and talk and seemed to genuinely enjoy our time together.  It was during that visit he told me, "I've always loved you and I always will".  That was news to me.  It was certainly news to me.

It was also during that visit he took me over to the shadow box I'd made for him as a young woman decades before.  With a smile he said, "Do you remember this?  I have packed it up carefully every  time I moved and hung it up where I'd see it every day."

His unexpected words of love pierced my wary heart and in those precious moments years of disappointment unexpectedly melted away. The secret of the shadow box--he had been keeping for decades--was that each time he saw it he lovingly thought of me.

When my father passed away 2 years ago, I was asked by a friend of his (who also became a friend of mine) if there was anything of my dad's I wanted.  All I could think of was the shadow box.  She visited his home in search of the shadow box but couldn't find it.  I was disappointed and it took me a little while to get past that.  I'd asked God to either let it find its way to me or to let me be ok with not getting it back.

Due to my husband's health issues (I could not leave him) I was unable to attend my dad's life celebration service.  It was heartbreaking to not be part of it.  

The day of the service my brother called me and said, "I have your shadow box. It was in a box of things for our family to go through."  I cried tears of happiness and thanked God for His faithfulness even in this small thing.

This past weekend my husband and I made the out of state trip to bring home the shadow box and some other family mementos including long ago pictures of my son.

When I touched that shadow box, I could hear my dad say, "I've always loved you and always will."  And I thanked my Heavenly Father that my earthly father had revealed the secret of the shadow box to me.

Jackie Deems  copyright 2019

Crazy Quilt Patches

I just returned home from a whirlwind weekend trip to visit family and old school friends in another state.  At times I laughed.  At times I cried.  It was an emotionally packed, physically demanding crazy quilt of emotions time for me.

Many of my family members have been emotionally separated from me for many years. To be blunt, they could have cared less if I lived or died.  Needless to say, going back "home" has not been a top priority for me.

Dysfunctional families are not fun.  Severely dysfunctional families covering a multitude of generations are even less fun.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) much of the family dysfunction, anger and resentment has recently been resolved with my sister's schizophrenia diagnosis and, close family members I haven't spoken to in many years broke bread with me this past weekend. 

As I think back over this weekend, so many things swirl through my soul and heart as I realize that every person in our lives for a time are a patch sewn into each of our crazy quilt lives.

Because of or in spite of, each meeting of each person in our lives changes our quilt forever.  Sometimes the meeting is loving and nurturing, sometimes it's not.  But a patch is still sewn into our crazy quilt lives regardless of the emotional outcome of each relationship.

My own crazy quilt life bears patches of generations gone by, from people I have never met--those who have gone on before me.  Those patches are old and frayed and threadbare and worn. But they are still part of my quilt because how these people made their way through this world influenced the way their children did too.  And eventually their choices touched my life and changed how my crazy quilt life would be sewn.

My own crazy quilt life also has patches that are missing because of those dear ones I have lost in my lifetime. The holes in my quilt bear witness to their being and they are not forgotten, nor are their influence.  The love is still there in the holes.

Life changes.  Love dies.  Lives end. But, if we are determined enough to remember and cherish and understand and forgive each person represented on each patch of our crazy quilt lives we will forever have something to keep us warm. 

Jackie Deems

copyright 2019

I just got off the phone with someone who asked me several questions about the rescue animals I care for.  Her closing remark was,  "If I ever win the lottery I will help you".  

I actually hear that comment quite often.  I always say "thank you" but for some reason, this time was somehow different. Why?  Because I just realized I already did win the lottery!  Before you think this "crazy cat lady" really is, um, crazy--please  allow me to explain.

I already won the lottery because I have:

A roof over my head--albeit an old roof'--a consistent, comfortable, safe place to call my home.

The luxury of food to eat--food I actually get to choose--food I like--not food I have to scrounge every day for.

Good health, not perfect health--but good enough health.

A car--not a new car--but one that runs more than it doesn't.

The comfortable companionship of a few good friends.
 

Money enough to meet my not so extravagant needs, with just a little left over to share with others who need it even more than I do.

Creatures to care for and about.

Clothes. Not the latest designer clothes. Just plain old comfy, worn in the right places clothes. 

A few select people who love and actually "get" and appreciate me.

An awe inspiring place to live where I am surrounded by nature and see God's handiwork at every turn.

A purposeful, meaningful (ever changing) life even though that purpose is sometimes perplexing to myself or others.

A contentment of soul.  I don't know how else to explain it. Just a deep down to the bone contentment that all will eventually be well no matter the present situation.

Most of all, I have already won the lottery because I know that this life is but a fleeting moment in time and will lead me to an eternity with Christ.  

And if that's not "winning the lottery", what is?

"Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasure in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."  Matthew 6: 19-21

Shepherdess Blog
Copyright 2019
Jackie Deems

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