Masks vs. Logic vs. Love

    The main problem I am having with the mask mandate or, in our state, directive--although only a lawyer would know the difference--is not the loss of personal rights, it is the lack of logic. Christians are nowhere commanded to stand up for our rights, we are actually called to surrender them. We are, however, to stand for the rights of the oppressed and powerless, like the unborn. God can and does call some Christians to stand against slavery, form a new nation, go to war against an oppressor, etc. but our desire to fight for our individual rights is from our sinful, not sanctified, nature. We are born tiny tyrants.
    It would be wonderful if decisions about our welfare in this time of crisis were directed by the emerging data, but data is often faulty. As in facilities whose test results come in 100% positive, or individuals who signed up for, but left before, the actual test, being notified they have Covid. And then there are political and financial incentives for physicians to declare Corona virus cause of death without medical proof. Also, both maskers and anti-maskers skew or cherry pick data so their conclusion supports their original supposition. That is human nature.
      So there is data and there is logic. I love logic. Logic is what helped me determine as a young girl which of the things my schizophrenic mother said were true and which were delusions. So here is my problem with masks:

• If wearing masks makes the difference in the spread of the pandemic, then logically, what the masks are made of, and how they fit, matters.
• If we are supposed to save the effective masks, like N95 or other OSHA approved, for the front line workers (as we should), then logically the ones they want us to wear are ineffective. If they tried to force our work force to use the suffocatingly safe masks reserved for health care and first responders, no one would cooperate.

     There is, however, some data to suggest that how sick people become with Corona virus depends on how much they were exposed to it. If that is true, then logically, it would be worth the inconvenience of wearing masks if it meant a lighter case of Covid.
     So I surrender logic and wear a mask, though it does have a slightly snarky message "Feel better?", but I do not complain to the poor employee who drew door duty on behalf of their business. Logically, they are not the problem. Believers draw the daily duty of acting on behalf of their Savior and grumbling is the worst possible representation of the business He is in. Logic sheds light, but it can't hold a candle to love.

Partners

     I am not a cowboy, nor have I played one on TV, but I have watched my fair share of Westerns, whether I wanted to or not. "Quigley Down Under" and "Open Range" are my favorites. I even read the occasional book in Western genre voluntarily. That still doesn't explain why I wrote this cowboy type love poem. I blame that on the poetry "Muse-quito" I mentioned in my last post. All I wanted to write in was a crossword puzzle.

Partners

I knew when I signed on with the Lamb outfit

that the fella I would be partnered with was only green broke,

but I took the job anyway.

I was sorta a hand between brands at the time

and didn’t cotton to the idea of riding alone.

Some can do it, but it’s wearisome

and even dangerous.

It was hard work and the wages weren’t much,

but I was used to that. I’m a fair hand at fixing grub,

if I do say so myself, so we always ate good.

And, most of the time, we made ourselves

a snug place to sleep at night.

Although, some of the storms we got caught in

were real gully washers.

Outside of the occasional head butting

all partners do, we got along pretty well.

Still do actually. I settled in there at the
Double L and never got the itch to move on.

I may not have him all the way saddle broke,

but I’ll stay where I’m at,

a good partner can be hard to find.

Resting Places

          Whichever Muse inspires poetry must have latched on like a mosquito lately, with the same level of commitment, and annoyance. I thought this might happen when we go to Grand Junction next week because travel seems to give me verbal diarrhea, but we haven't even left yet. Keep reading my blog though, there's good stuff in here somewhere.

Resting Places

Our yard is full of resting places—

Old Annie cat, our first pet,

is buried on the north end of the house

simply because it was the only ground

soft enough to dig in January.

Nineteen and a half,

not bad for a cat.

Long lived Annie.

Wally, our first dog, was old

when we bought this house,

too old to even explore

much of the property.

He is buried near the shop

much too close, we later realized,

to the drain field for the septic.

Our beloved cat Cisco,

always having an adventure,

if only in his own mind,

rests beneath his favorite bush

in the backyard. If his death was unexpected,

anesthesia gone wrong,

his burial, at least, was fitting.

Garth, our faithful Lab,

rests near the fence.

Wiser this time, we buried him

where we knew there were no utilities.

Fifteen years is a long life

for a Lab mix,

but it was not long enough.

And now our much loved

main cat, Maynard, rests

beneath the apple tree

in the front yard, his launching place

for many adventures and hunts.

The grass over his grave is recovering

and our hearts will--in time.

For their bodies

our minds,

and our memories—

resting places.

________________

(Sola, our emergency back up cat,
had the misfortune of dying
while we were out of town.
We had her cremated
and do not have her ashes,
so she has no resting place
only this honorary mention.)

Brie and Grandma Togedder

     My granddaughter, Gabrielle, and I have had weekly get togethers since she was an infant. Brie is now 3, so we have fallen into a routine of things we do at Grandma's house. This week we had a family birthday dinner for my husband and Brie, of course, was there. When I told her it was nice that she was playing on the slide with sock monkey, she said, "No Grandma, Brie and Grandma togedder." I explained that I was busy with the dinner, but we could play together in a couple days. But I have been thinking ever since about how quickly the time will come when she has better playmates than Grandma and many interests beyond her family. I want to hold on as tightly as I can to what we have now because soon, very soon, she will leave behind the days of "Brie and Grandma togedder." But I will not. I will lock them in my heart and memory like the treasure they are.
   Longfellow wrote a wonderful poem about this called "The Children's Hour". I have memorized the last two verses and will share them here:

I have you fast in my fortress,
   And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
   In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
   Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
   And moulder in dust away!

Watching Out The Window

     Tracy is in his last two weeks of preparation for heading to Helena to follow in his Dad's footsteps and begin aircraft mechanic school. Many of his evenings are busy now and his dogs, who are as set in their routines as old men, don't understand why he is late coming home for dinner or they don't get their evening car ride. Little do they know that he will be away from them for most of 18 months. It is hard to imagine how they will adjust. But already they watch out the window for him with an intensity almost painful to observe. I do not know how I will adjust to seeing that.

   Watching Out the Window

He has not even left

 for college yet--our son

  and already it has begun

  the dogs, watching out the window

   for him to come home.

They do not know how much

 this training will benefit him

  in the future. They only know

   he is late coming home from work.

    So they watch out the window.

Like Garth did when Will moved away.

 And Odin did in the pensive picture

  I put in the photo collage after he died.

   Like Baldr and Mykah are doing now, 

    when Trace is late coming home.

There are many things

  dogs cannot comprehend

   but loyalty is not one of them

    and love, they can teach us

     how to show love.

Love watches out the window.

Which Weak This Week?

       The Bible tells us to both submit to the governing authorities and not to offend weaker Christians. It also tells us to "as far as it is possible, live at peace with all men." Even Paul, who caused controversy almost everywhere he went (Come for the message, stay for the riot), made it his goal to do whatever it took to reach the lost. How to sort this out over the mask issue is problematic. Some unbelievers, and even Christians, believe wearing a mask is a life or death issue. You can tell who they are because they wear masks and gloves while riding alone in their own cars, or while walking (even exercising!) in abundant social distance, outside. Apparently they think masks will protect them from exposure to their own germs. At the other end of the spectrum are those who feel wearing a mask is collaborating with a conspiracy and, for some Christians, only a step away from taking the mark of the beast.
    Therefore, not wearing a mask might mar my testimony for Christ as uncaring to those who are fearful. And it might offend weak Christians who do not yet understand God's sovereignty over our lifespans. However, wearing a mask might weaken my testimony with unbelievers who think that signifies mindless compliance. And it might offend believers who think it endorses a deep state agenda. Which weak do I choose not to offend from week to week?
     My personal decision is to give the most grace to those who know the least about it--the unsaved. If wearing a mask gives me an opportunity to witness to someone who sees Covid as a life and death struggle, I want to use that prepared soil to plant a seed for the one who brings life from death. Unbelievers who read the message on my mask "Happy now?" can tell I am not a mindless sheep, despite submitting, and that gives me opportunities to witness also.
    So I choose to err on the side of the erring. Besides, if my mask wearing offends a fellow believer, we will have eternity to sort that out.

Mourning Maynard

     The summer of 2006 we let many strays into our home, most of which were human--homeless friends of our son. They stayed with us from one month to two years depending on their willingness to pay rent and follow our rules. But one of the strays was a cat. Tracy had recently brought me a kitten for Mother's Day. She was from one of the barn cats that lived around my sister's place until they got them all fixed. We named her Sola because she was the sole survivor of her litter. Later, based on her personality, we speculated she may have killed off her siblings. But that July she was still young and fun and cute. We were definitely not looking for another cat. But, like the spare sons, this one followed Tracy home. One of the spares named him Maynard G. Krebs, after the beatnik character on an old TV program, "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis". Maynard definitely fit the beatnik vibe. He was at one with the world. We were not yet at one with Maynard, however, and the boy who named him agreed to take him when he found an apartment. By the time he found one, we were willing to fight to the death to keep Maynard. He grew on us faster than a claw can snag a sweater.
     And that was not the only time someone tried to adopt Maynard. A few years down the road, we began to suspect Maynard was cheating on us. When we would return from a trip, our house sitter, usually Tracy, would tell us Maynard hadn't been around much. As a matter of fact, he might not stroll home until two days after we returned. We knew he was seeing someone else. So, before the next trip, we got him a collar with our phone number. Right away we got a phone call from our neighbor two houses down asking why we put a collar on the cat she had been feeding for two years. (Canned food, no less.) Reed answered, "Because we have had him for five." Margo still tells people the story of how she tried to find a home for her neighbor's cat!
     From then on, we didn't worry about Maynard getting fed when we traveled. We did, however, worry about him being out in the cold because the Margo's cat fought with Maynard if she tried to let him in the house. I spent a night of fervent prayer in Billings praying for Mayn to find shelter in the sub-zero weather the state was experiencing. Finding shelter was not the problem, Margo had built him a warm box bed on her porch. The problem was, the box was not part of Maynard's routine, and he refused to try something new. Sometimes, we even had to kidnap Maynard to bring him home from Margo's. As much as he seemed to love us, he thought we were hostile strangers when he was out of our yard.
     Something new that didn't bother Maynard at all was nudity. One summer his fur had gotten so matted that we had him shaved. He didn't like the trip to the groomer, but he was happy to display his nakedness in all his usual sleeping positions once he got home. The reason Margo thought Maynard was a stray was because he meowed so much when he showed up. She thought he was hungry, but that was just Mayn, he was a talky cat. He had a large vocabulary too, different sounds for different occasions. The loudest of which was the cry of the victorious hunter, letting us know there was a dead creature on the doormat. Since I did not want him to bring his prize inside, I would open the door a crack and praise him no matter how tiny, helpless or gross his prey appeared. And I learned to check the front doormat before I stepped out barefoot in the morning.
     Maynard and Sola did not bond. Cats who are not siblings seldom do. Even we did not bond with them equally, Maynard was our main cat and Sola was the emergency-back-up cat. Sola stationed herself on our bed and stayed mostly indoors. Maynard spent a lot of time outdoors and claimed sleeping places all over the house.  When Sola died suddenly while we were away three years ago, Maynard was so broken up he immediately took over her place on our bed. Mostly, he slept at the foot, causing me to sleep in awkward straddle positions so as not to disturb him. But it was also not unusual to find him between us at the head of the bed or lying on our side while we slept. The problem was, Maynard did not just want us to be uncomfortable, he wanted us to pet him. But we did, because he rewarded us for sacrificing sleep with loud purring. He had us well trained.
     When Tracy and his dogs came to live with us, Maynard was not happy. Sometimes he illustrated his opinion of their intrusion by pooping on the carpet downstairs, especially when we were out of town. Sola was not afraid of the dogs, though she was of everything else. Ever since she scratched the eye of Tracy's puppy, Odin, she trusted in the power of her paws. Maynard took longer to warm up to the dogs--two years actually. But eventually he was content sleeping belly up around them, his zen position.
    Time, odd thing that it is, flew by and before we knew it fourteen years had passed.  Over the winter we noticed a growth on Maynard's side. We had it removed, but we did not have it biopsied for cancer because he had such a poor recovery after surgery that we feared he wouldn't survive another. Maynard had several good months after that, but began to lose an alarming amount of weight. This had happened before, cats who eat mice and birds get worms, but de-worming didn't help. A few weeks ago he stopped eating. Maynard knew it was his time. And we knew. But that last step of taking care of a pet is excruciating.
      He started holing up under the stairs like he did recovering from surgery. I prayed for one more good day in the sun and the Sunday before he died he had that. Tuesday he made the hard trek upstairs to come to the kitchen for his traditional bowl of milk, and even drank a little. That same night I discovered tumors on his belly. I prayed hard for the Lord to let him sleep away, but by Wednesday he didn't leave his shelter under the stairs when I came down  and slept so little I knew he was in pain.
    We did not want to take him to the vet to spend his last moments where he was always so afraid. The vet who euthanizes in the home was not available until the next week. We would have to relieve his suffering ourselves. Our way, bullet to the base of the brain. Easier for me, I had hours to spend with him and I would not be holding the gun. So we said our goodbyes, even Baldr, who knew a member of his "pack" was dying. Mayn is buried near the apple tree in the front yard where he, at last, sleeps away. We bought a stone to mark his passing. Totally unnecessary. We will never forget.