You Never Know

           It’s a sad, sad day here on Robinson Road.

          A young woman died. Unexpectedly.

          Now, just to be clear, I didn’t know this young woman. She’s related to one of our neighbors. Nonetheless, my heart is very, very sad. It reminds me of the loss of our daughter, Kathryn, and I know the pain their hearts must feel.

          Nothing will make you more aware of your own mortality, than when a life is gone much, much too soon.

          “Peg, it happens every day,” you say.

          And I know what you’re saying is true. But the point is really driven home when it’s someone you know.  

          Do you know where you will go when you die?

          “Peg, I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I believe there’s nothing after this life, just total and complete oblivion.”

          I wish I believed that. The thought of my loved ones spending eternity in hell is a horror beyond comprehension.

          “I’m a good person, so yeah, I’m going to heaven.”

          To whom are you comparing yourself? The rapist? The murderer? The serial killer? Well then, my love, you are comparing yourself to the wrong person. The one you should compare yourself to is the sinless Son of God, Jesus Christ. By His standards, we are all sinners and our just punishment is eternity without God, aka hell.

          I want to tell you a story.

          Years ago, when I was going through my divorce, a gal I worked with came up to me on the factory floor and said, “My husband and I were going through a hard time a few years ago and we were going to get a divorce. Do you know what saved us?”

          I shook my head no.

          “Jesus Christ. Turn to Jesus,” she said, “He can save your marriage.”

I blew her off.

          She tried. But the truth is, I didn’t want Jesus or religion in my life. I wanted to keep on going right down the path I was going down. I didn’t want to give up my sin.

          I can look back now and see how different my life would’ve been had I accepted Jesus into my life.

          “How so?” you wanna know.

          Like the gal who tried to help me, I wouldn’t’ve divorced. I would have worked a lot harder to save my marriage.

          I can’t change the past, and you can’t either. The death of our daughter, like a cold, hard slap in the face, made me realize I had to get right with God. I’m sure Kat didn’t know she was going to die the day she died. I know she lived for a little while after her accident. I hope, to the very depths of my soul, I hope that she repented and accepted Jesus and is now resting in the arms of our Lord. Because once you take your last breath on this earth, your eternal destiny is set, and unchangeable.

I was out walking the dogs one day shortly after we laid Kat to rest. I was thinking of her and wondering where she was. If she was in heaven, that was great. But what if she wasn’t? What if she was in hell? I thought about all the things I knew about hell and the thought that my baby girl might be there was enough to rend my heart in two. White-hot tears of anguish slid from my eyes and burned their way down my cheeks. I knew it was my fault. If she was in hell, it was all my fault. I failed as a parent. I failed to teach my children to love, honor, and obey our Creator.

I can’t change that either.

I knew, right then and there, that if I didn’t get right with God, I’d go to hell, too. I asked Jesus to forgive me, to empty me of my own selfish, earthly desires and to come into my heart. I wanted to walk with Jesus.

And the first thing I had to do was to stop living in sin and marry the man I’d been living with for twenty-one years, or leave him.

          If I’m wrong and there is only oblivion when we die, then I’ve lost nothing. If you’re wrong, and there really is a heaven and a hell, what will you lose?

          “I’ll accept Jesus on my deathbed,” you say.

          Fine and dandy — if you’re given time enough to do that. The problem is you never know when you’re going to die. That is why we must be ready every single second of every single day to meet God.

I beg you, I implore you, I beseech you to open your Bible and read the Word of God — and find a good Bible-teaching church. Gather together with other believers. Iron sharpens iron.

Now I shall climb off my soapbox and get on with the weekly jibber-jabber.

Lamar’s ankle is healing well. He’s out of the boot but still has physical therapy three times a week. Mike and I are still getting their mail for them. It was while on a mail run that I saw the sun shining on the trees on the other side of the creek.

“Go across the bridge and let me snap a picture,” I said to Mike. 

Mike, being a good husband, complied. It's not as pretty as I’d hoped, but here it is.

Since I talked about the card holders I was making, I gave Miss Rosie hers.

          “I love it,” she said. “It’s such a practical and useful gift. And you’re right, I do have a hard time holding a bunch of cards. Now I can’t wait to play cards and try it out.”

          We were talking about last week’s letter blog. “I missed a picture,” I told her. “If I’d’ve tried to go back and put it in, it would’ve messed up the whole thing and run onto another page.” I try to use my resources as efficiently as possible. If I end up with a couple of sentences on the top of the last page, I’ll go back and adjust stuff or delete a picture, something, anything, rather than send a whole page of mostly blank nothingness.

          Somehow, we got to talking about eagles. “I saw on the internet where some guy was arrested for killing sixty eagles,” Mike said.

          “Where was he that he got to see sixty eagles?” Miss Rosie wondered.

          “I don’t remember where it was,” Mike confessed.

          “I saw an eagle when we were coming back from Vestal,” I said. “But he was so far away that I didn’t get a good picture of him, so I didn’t show it.”

          “You should’ve shown us anyway,” Miss Rosie said. “You’ve done that before.”

          Indeed, I have.

          So, here’s the eagle that was so far away that if it weren’t for its white head, you wouldn’t be able to tell it was an eagle.

          Speaking of birds, I was out with Raini when I heard the cry of a hawk. I searched the skies until I found him. He was making lazy circles, all the while calling and coming closer and closer. I took twenty-four pictures of him and this is the best I got. You can see his red tail.

          And speaking of Raini...

          She’s the star of this week’s letter blog, having seven pictures — more than any other subject this week. I almost named this week’s letter blog for her but I figured your immortal soul was far more important.

          I take Raini out with me when I burn the burnables. She runs on ahead, up the hill to the whistle pig hole. I get up there and all I see is Heeler butt.

          “Dontcha go down there!” I yelled at her. She pulled back and looked at me. I walked up the hill for a closer look. Raini dived back into the hole. Maybe she wasn’t as far in as I first thought she was.

          I have no doubt that Raini could kill a woodchuck — out in the open. In the hole, the whistle pig might have the upper hand. 

          Saturday was fairly nice out for mid-December, and it’d been a while since I cleaned dog poo from the dog run. Raini thinks whenever I go out, it’s to play with her. She got her ball and dropped it at my feet. “No,” I told her. “Let’s clean up poop.”

          “Arr-rr-rrr,” she sang in frustration as I sidestepped her.

          “If you help me find the poop it’ll go faster, then we can play.”

          She picked up the ball and dropped it at my feet again. I relented and threw it a few times, then I started ignoring her when she brought the ball back — until she dropped it in the pile of poo I was raking up!

          “Raini! You dropped it right in the poop!” I admonished. I picked her ball up and wiped it across the grass. I wasn’t having any more of that. I put her ball up on a stump, out of her reach.

          I finished the front half of the dog run and went to check the side yard. They seldom poop there. “I think we’re done!” I told my two little shadows as we head back to the front. Raini took off at a dead run. I wondered where she was going in such a hurry. I tossed the shovelful of poo over the fence and down over the bank. Raini comes back — with her ball in her mouth! “How did you get that‽” I asked like she could tell me. Maybe the wind knocked it down, I thought, and dismissed it as soon as I thunk it. There wasn’t any wind and it would have to be a pretty stiff wind to knock it down at that. It’s a solid rubber ball.

          To find out how she got the ball, I put it back on the stump.

          “Where’s your ball?” I asked.

          Both girls stood at the base of the stump and whined.

          Raini came over and looked up at me expectantly.

          “Get your ball,” I encouraged.

          It took her two or three tries but she was able to jump up and snag her ball.

          I never, not in a million years, would’ve guessed she could’ve gotten her ball down.

          “You’re such a clever girl,” I told her and took the proffered ball. So many of the nubbies are missing from it now that I won’t toss it on the roof for her anymore. It might roll off just fine or it might land on a flat spot and not roll off at all. I’m not taking any chances. This ball is strictly for bouncing off the side of the building these days.

          Another time of day I take Raini out is after I scoop out the cat litter boxes and go out to toss it into the weeds. She runs a hundred miles an hour up the hill. She has surprised deer up there before and had a great time chasing them, so I’m guessing that’s what she checks for.

          On this morning, finding no deer, she comes back and looks over the hill at me.

          She looks like she’s king of the world, up there, surveying her kingdom. I had to take a picture to show you.

          I toss the litter and when Raini sees me heading back to the house, she beats me in the door.

          Raini is twenty months old now. We’re still working on two habits of hers that we find annoying. She body-blocks you when you’re walking. Trying to bulldoze your way past her hasn’t worked. Trying to step on her feet hasn’t worked. I think she thinks they’re fun games. She’s almost tripped me a bunch of times as she dashes in front of me to play body-block. Last week I decided to try something new. I decided to stop dead in my tracks and ignore her. She’ll press against my legs, wiggle around behind, come back up between my feet, lean against me, thump her tail against my legs, then, having gotten no response, she loses interest and walks away. After consistently stopping and ignoring her, she less and less tries to body-block me. At first, I had to wait as long as a minute or two, but now, ten or fifteen seconds and she quits. Sometimes she doesn’t do it at all anymore and I’m so happy!

          The other thing she does is more common to many dogs. She jumps up on us when we first come in. Stepping on her toes hasn’t worked, even when you make her yelp. Kneeing her in the chest hasn’t worked. Whacking her on the head with a newspaper hasn’t worked. I’m thinking ignoring her might be the only thing that will work but her nails are so stinkin’ sharp! It’s hard not to yell at her to get down. I guess I’ll keep working on that one.

>>>*<<<

          I finished my last commission — until I get another one, that is. The lady liked the cardinal on the last brag board so much that she requested the same one.

         I'm proud of this second cardinal, not that there was anything wrong with the first one.

          Tiger, once again, wanted to help. He crept closer and closer, first putting one foot on my paint towel, then slowly putting the other foot on the paint towel, all the while looking at me to gauge my reaction.

          “Okay, okay,” I told him and moved the board.

          Tiger rolled himself into a ball, tucked his nose between his feet, and went to sleep.

          Life is so hard for my critters!

          >>>*<<<

It’s late, I know.

          “Late for what?” you wanna know.

          It’s late to be making Christmas cards. I had hoped to have them done by this time but I got sidetracked playing with artificial intelligence. There are just a couple of four people in my life that I wanted to make a card with a special theme. Then I got hung up making papers. I have so many patterns to choose from. I printed a bunch that I liked. Now I’m hoping they’ll work with the sentiment I created using another artificial intelligence program.

         

          They may be late.

          Let’s call this one done.

          Done!