Quiet Time, Reflection

While visiting my father in the critical care unit of the hospital recently,  I stood by his side when the doctor said the words that every family fears: We are unsure of the outcome if you decide to have surgery. But if you don't, it could prove devastating also.

My dad reached for my hand and held it, carefully digesting the doctor's diagnosis. When she left the room he said, "I don't even feel sick." That's been my father. A man who had a heart attack and didn't even know it. A man who claimed that he never felt much pain. A man who would put others needs before his own, and not really let you know what was going on behind those amazing green eyes.

I excused myself for a few moments, and quietly fell to pieces in a restroom down the hallway. Then I gathered my courage, called my brother, and kept a stiff upper lip while I spent the rest of the day with Dad. A little later I left the room again, headed for the small hospital chapel. A room to reflect in. A room for prayer and God's presence.

Two candles were lit on a small altar. A huge, old Bible sat opened. Several rows of wooden pews stood closely together and the lights were low. The smell of candle wax permeated the air; a kind-of nostalgic, comforting scent, bringing me back to the many Sunday's I attended church with my father.

I closed my eyes and spoke quietly in my heart to my Heavenly Father. I don't know if the words made sense, but the Holy Spirit knew. For a calm descended over me, and loving arms wrapped about me. Though I had thought I couldn't go on earlier that day, I stood and walked from the room to face whatever outcome my father's surgery would bring that evening.

******

A women's care facility. Cold and sterile. An oversized, cotton dressing gown that hung on my frame making me and the other ladies who were waiting for results of their own tests look like clones of one another. My name is called. The tickle of fear in my belly deepens. After all, I've been called back for more tests on a mammogram. I entered the room feeling more like a computer generated number than a human at this point. And nobody smiles here. I make a mental note that in the future I will find a better facility. I miss the girls I had known back home, hating that insurance companies force you to find places that accept your carrier.

I am called in for a sonogram next. By this time I want to scream. I want to run far away. Don't they know my father is in critical care in another town? Don't they know he still has a ventilator in and we are hoping, praying for good results? Can't they at least look at me and tell me that everything will be alright, or even if not, can they give me a ray of hope?

I lay back upon the table in the low-lit room. I close my eyes and my breathing slows. Once again, I'm drawn into the presence of the Almighty. I don't need to be in a chapel or church. For He is with me wherever I go, and I feel Him now. 

Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

The words are a promise and a truth. Whether the outcome of my tests or my father's surgery this past week had been good or bad, I knew God was real. He is a miracle worker and He adores us. Had we lost Dad, I knew where he was headed. And I had a true peace with that knowledge.

My tests turned out negative, though I had a small cyst. I am to have more frequent mammograms now. And my father: well, he made it through touchy surgery against all odds. At eighty-five years of age and being a heart patient, a quadruple bypass and defibrillator and pacemaker patient, this brave man chose the road of recovery. He didn't throw in the towel or give up. 

I think back to those quiet moments this week. The times I closed my eyes and called upon the peace that passes understanding. The lonely moments where all I had was my God and that was enough.

Yes, my friends, He is more than enough. Let His peace rule in your hearts. Give yourself quiet time and moments of reflection in the midst of your own uphill battles.

Love with the passing of time

Recently I met a wonderful community of writers. Those who write about their true experiences with their aging parents, and dealing with Alzheimer's and dementia. A wonderful support group, and people who know how difficult it is as my family is going through it right now.

What follows is the post written for the community about the inspiration behind my fictional novel of love in the golden years.

Love in the senior years: A true inspiration to me. My parents are married over sixty years as of this writing. Sixty years of ups and downs, good health and bad, happiness and sadness. But one thing remains: a steadfast love. It is this love that inspired me to write; theirs, and another couple: my husband’s elderly aunt and uncle.

You see, when I was a little girl, my mother suffered from mental illness. There were times in her delusion when she barely knew who she was, much like Alzheimer’s. It wasn’t easy and she was hospitalized many times. That is why her recent diagnosis of dementia has been very difficult to take. But as I saw when I was a child, my father puts all of my mother’s needs first. At complete disregard for his own comfort, he would do anything for Mom. He’s remained by her side, loyal, loving, respectful, treating her as if she’s the young beauty he first married so long ago.

I saw another great love. Louise, my husband’s aunt, had a stroke several years back and was hospitalized and eventually moved into a nursing home. Her husband, Hubert, took the time every single day driving to see her, helping her to eat, talking with her even though she couldn’t speak well, and making sure every need of hers was met. There came a time he couldn’t drive any longer, and he would wait as the senior bus picked him up, not missing one day with his wife. When he suffered his own health crisis, he ended up in the same care facility. Though they weren’t in the same room, Uncle Hubert would wheel himself down the hall to spend time with his beloved each and every day.

Hubert and Louise didn’t have many family members, so I became a regular visitor of theirs. I watched as love appeared to grow even stronger as Hubert sat by his wife’s side, gazing upon her as if she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and talking to her as if she was the only person in the world who mattered.

It was then that a story began forming in my mind. What if an older couple actually met for the first time in an assisted living center? What if a warm friendship was forged, and eventually led to love? My book Love Woven in Time was born.

It chronicles the lives of Harry and Rose, two people who meet in the golden years, both with their own sets of challenges, but the main one being Harry’s onset of dementia. It was carefully written with the help of a dementia coach and author, Carol Howell, and with thoughts of my parents and my husband’s uncle and aunt, giving a story that is tender, believable, and written from the heart.

Though Hubert and Louise have passed, I am blessed to still have my parents. I continue to watch, grow, and learn from them about true love. A bond that cannot be broken. Even with the ravages of time, age, and memory loss.
https://alzauthors.wordpress.com/2016/08/16/meet-karen-malena-author-of-love-woven-in-time/

Transparency

I've known several types of people in my lifetime. Those who never talk much about themselves, preferring to be private individuals. I think that is their right. Then there are others who share the good, bad, happy and sad, and you feel very close to this type because you realize you have many of the same feelings too.

We learned a little about transparency in church last weekend. I loved the message. I am an extremely transparent person. You can tell by my facial expressions what I'm thinking or feeling. I am not a good fibber. I stutter if I am trying to cover something up. So I am an honest person, and I wear my heart on my sleeve.

The pastor talked about investing in others with transparency, especially if we were wrong about something. Recently, I did a bit of soul searching. I found that several people push my buttons, and I always am ready for a quick fight with them, or I treat them a little differently because I think they feel a certain way, or act a certain way. Then it hit me. This isn't fair. This is not who you are created to be. You are to be a light in this dark world. Treat this person or persons the way you want to be treated, even if they aren't very nice to you.

Of course I went to God first with this knowledge. I asked His forgiveness immediately, and I asked Him to open my heart to love these people. To act toward them in a loving fashion. It's funny, but sometimes God grants our request immediately, especially in regard to this type of prayer. I didn't even have time to debate about it at all with Him.

I remembered when I was a young mother. I must have had postpartum depression. I was nervous and edgy, and my baby had colic and a stomach issue. I was on edge a lot of the time, becoming angry and bitter. I sometimes took out my feelings of stress on those around me with a wicked, quick tongue. I couldn't even warm up to my little step-son at that time. I was not abusive, but my actions and the way I talked made me feel like the typical, wicked step mom. I'm able to admit it now, to be transparent and ask for forgiveness. I was wrong, and I acted badly. Grateful that the Lord gave me a second chance, I became close to my step-son soon after, and to this day, I love him with all my heart. I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful son, but I'm able to come clean and ask for forgiveness now.

If we invest in others with transparency, as our pastor mentioned, we are able to say:
I was wrong.
I am sorry.
I have a long way to go.
Sometimes these things aren't easy to admit, but they show the other person that we haven't "arrived," that we, too, are individuals with issues and we are struggling just as much as they might be.

Transparency builds trust. We are all flawed. I'm on the journey with you...These are some of the things to admit that are very very freeing.

We don't have to have our act perfectly together to reach out to others. Maybe we're still struggling with anger issues, past hurt, feelings of inadequacy or pain. But if we come clean with why we act out the way we do, then it builds trust for the other person. It shows them that there's a reason we're acting this way, and it's not them. I'm sorry I acted that way toward you, won't you please understand what is going on in my life to have made me snap at you that way?

Transparency may not be for you. If you are a private person as some of the people I know are, you may have a difficult time opening up, baring your soul and telling your story, so to speak. But I think it's very valuable and extremely powerful to show others, especially someone we may have wronged, that we are as human as they are.

Grant me the Serenity

Feeling a little overwhelmed tonight. Got off the phone with my mother, and as I was asking her about some food I'd made yesterday for her, she said, "I can't eat that for breakfast." I mentioned that it isn't breakfast time but eight p.m. She fought me a little and then asked my father who confirmed what time it really is.

Now that scared me. It's so easy for me, who has most of my wits, (well, that's questionable at times), to know the date, day and time. As a matter of fact, and you can ask anyone, I'm like a human time clock. As long as I check the time before my husband and I go somewhere, I usually have a pretty good idea, if asked, of the correct hour, etc. It's something I've always been able to do.

But forgive me, I've gotten off the subject. My stomach is clenched, and I have a tickle of fear in my spine. I wonder if Mom's getting worse. Certainly she is forgetting more and more. And her cooking skills have really faltered. She is repetitive and only speaks of the past. I want to run away, I want to scream, I want....something!

I want my mother, the way she was. I miss calling her and having her ask about my day. I miss the advice given, better than any therapist. I miss her quick wit and humor, and how you couldn't pull the wool over her at all. There was a time a few years back, that I heard a still, small voice inside me as I sat on my back porch on a lovely spring day. It said: Enjoy your mother.  I had a terrible feeling at that time, that what it meant that was Mom would be passing. I had no idea it was her mind that would pass, and with it, all that is dear about her.

Don't get me wrong. I am thrilled to still have her. We can laugh and talk about times past. And though it takes very long to explain anything that is going on in my life right now, I try to find the patience and will to go on each and every day.

God grant me the serenity to accept my mother the way she is. Give me the peace of mind and heart, give me understanding and love. God, watch over your beloved daughter, my mother, and help our family to bond together through this time and give us the knowledge we need to do right by her, and continue to give her dignity as she falters more and more. Thank you Father for the time we've had with her, and keep her safely in your care.

Amen

An Amazing Group of Young People

I think it was the movie "Signs" that said: There are no coincidences. I happen to believe that.

Mom and Dad are up in age, and their house is showing the signs of its own slowing down of sorts. Old, rotted wooden windows, peeling paint and a shower that's been caving in for several years.

My father had always been the type of guy who could repair anything. There wasn't much he couldn't do in his healthy, robust youth. We all looked to Dad as a sort-of super hero, and would call him for any jobs in our homes, large or small. When my father became a heart patient, the tables turned drastically. No longer could me or my brother call upon him for help. It was we who became the helpers, the caregivers.

I learned a lot though: how to cut hedges well, as Dad would sit by while I had the hedge trimmers in hand, guiding me with his words and the rubber end of his cane as he'd point and say "you missed a spot." I learned many other jobs: painting, gardening, grass-cutting, things only Dad could do. I felt a sense of pride.

As the years passed, my own life got in the way, and little by little, my parents house would succumb to the ravages of time. My brother and I had our own families, so we would do the best we could, but so many issues crept up; things we couldn't do ourselves, jobs that got way too big. Especially the bathroom shower.

I asked around. Did anyone know someone perhaps who could be of help? Does anyone do this type of work? As I read my list of home issues. I was always rewarded with the same answers: either "no," or "well, it will cost you a fortune." Rejected once again, I would walk away, hoping and praying that someone, anyone, would step up and give us the guidance needed to begin and complete this job, or some of the others.

I found myself praying on the way to work each day. One of my most recent prayers was: "Lord, I ask that you would let my Dad live to see goodness, favor and blessing on his house. I pray that somehow a miracle would occur to be a help to him." But time would pass, and the shower wall began to give way more and more. Dad tried his own hand at small attempts of repair with my brother, but it looked bad, and worse than that, it seemed unsafe and unhealthy.

Two months ago, my father came back from church with a paper bulletin in his hand. "Kar," he asked me, "what do you think this means? Catholic Youth Heart Camp? Do you think it is something for heart patients?"

I read over the paragraphs, my eyes widening as I saw all the jobs this youth camp allegedly did. There seemed to be nothing they wouldn't tackle. There was a telephone contact number of one of the nun's in Dad's church. I phoned the sister the following day and found out it was true! If a family was in particular need, we could sign up to have work done around the house; inside and out. I filled out paperwork, answered questions, and I got Mom and Dad's house on the list immediately.

Yesterday the nicest group of young people I may have ever met, showed up with their adult mentor/supervisor. As we walked around my parent's property, talking of all the jobs that needed attention, I found their positive attitudes refreshing. It seemed there was nothing they wouldn't be able to do.... and that included fixing the shower.

I am an emotional person. Especially when it comes to seeing a miracle before my eyes. I cried right then and there, right in front of the group of seven young people and their leader. I told them that they were an answer to a prayer I'd been praying for a while. I couldn't believe that God would send this group to my family at just the right moment. Not early, but certainly not late. That's how He rolls. His timing is so different from ours. When I want to give up and throw in the proverbial towel, God is there and has my back. Not only my back, but all of me! And, it seems, my family's back and all of them as well!

The youth group is still working there as I type this, but my parents are in awe of the kindness of the teenagers and their mentor. They are polite, caring, Godly, hard-working. They don't grumble or complain, but work with their whole hearts as unto the Lord. This is what the Bible tells us to do, and I've never seen it more than through this youth camp.

These are young people, from what I understand, who give up a week of their precious summer, raising their own money for a time of prayer, reflection and very hard work. They give of themselves unselfishly, and I believe they get back a generous portion of God's blessings.

I had an answered prayer. And it came in the form of a group of teens. God can use you, my friend. He can use me too. Maybe, just maybe we can be the answered prayer for someone else. It's very, very possible.

It Will Change

A Facebook post from a friend of mine prompted me to write this today. He's had some hardship financially, and wanted to try to enjoy some simpler pleasures this summer: miniature golf, ice cream cones and such. I applaud this, as many, many times, and still to this day, it's the simplest things that have brought me great joy.

Sometimes the comforting scent of April fresh fabric softener, or the scent of pine. Other times, it's been a string of white twinkle lights above my fireplace on a rainy evening. My cat's furry belly, and the sound of his purring. Enjoying a Reese's peanut butter cup after a long day of work. A few moments of bliss reading a favorite novel. An old CD I haven't listened to for years; something from earlier in my life that brings back a sweet little memory. Swinging on my porch swing, listening to the symphony of feathered friends.

I could go on and on, because my family and I have been simple people. We never went on grand vacations and such. A trip to the local amusement parks to play Fascination, or ride a few rides; an overnight stay or two at a cottage near Conneaut Lake Park. We never had tons of money or the financial security that some people seem to enjoy. And it was fine. We had laughter and love, fights and closeness, but we had each other and quality time.

When adversity strikes, and choices are to be made, sometimes we feel as if we'll crumble. There's a setback in our finances or health, and all of a sudden, even the simplest of joys fall by the wayside. We feel as if we'll never recover or get back out of that pit. That our world is on hold, and we have no idea how long before we will even smile again.

There have been major events in my life that threatened to pull me down and keep me there. My mother's battle with mental health issues when I was a young girl. How do you ever recover from that? I became quiet and sullen. I see pictures of myself from that time and I looked like the weight of the world lay on my shoulders. I wondered if I'd ever be happy or carefree like other little girls I knew. I never thought I'd see my mother again.

Or my year-long trial in seventh grade with a group of boys who chose to bully me, calling me names and making fun of me. I trudged home day after day hoping they would find something else to do, or some new victim to harass. I hated myself believing the lie inside my head that said "you're no good, you're stupid, you are what they say you are. You will not make it through this."

Then when scoliosis struck with fear and the unknown of my health as a young teen, I never thought I would be "normal" ever again. I would always feel different, odd, and deformed.

I can say to you, my friend, keep your head up. Find the will to crawl out of your setback, no matter what it takes. I am living proof that time heals all wounds, even things as bad as financial hardship. Years ago I was on food stamps and could barely pay my bills. I had to be thrifty in my spending and living. And you can do it too. It isn't forever, nothing is. I know it feels that way, but adversity always passes. Even if it takes several years of caution, of not being able to afford certain things you feel that you can't live without, in time, the sun will peek out of the gray cloud of depression, and you'll be amazed and so proud of yourself for doing this, for finding a way in the dark.

Oh, and don't you dare put living on hold. You can make a choice--you don't have to sit in a darkened room staring at a blank wall, thinking just how much you messed up, or why did this happen to me, the usual victim mentality. No, you pick your head up, eat a good meal, go for a walk, sing a song, enjoy your health at this moment in time. Talk with people as if nothing is wrong--that you don't have a care in the world. Act "as if" you are absolutely fine. Because the look on our countenance and the words that come out of our mouth are powerful, my friends. Life is for living and that means for each and every one of us.

Trust me: it will change.

I always loved this song and video. It's Billy Joel's "Don't Forget Your Second Wind."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhxjNYvJbgM

The Long Path Ahead

When the I.T. tech on the other end of the phone said these words last week: "I think you have a bad problem," my heart sank and I wanted to vomit.

Our computer at work had gotten what is known as a ransomware encryption, and someone literally scrambled our data, and was holding it for ransom. After many phone calls and one awesome computer genius, we were back up a few days later, albeit a lot more cautious, and unfortunately at a loss for some of our data and appointments.

I cried, I screamed, I bargained with God. I didn't want this problem, and thought I would go insane if I had to face the mountain of work before us to try and retrieve as much old information as possible, and still run business as usual.

The first day back after a long holiday weekend, and I turned my own computer on and stared at the screen for a full three minutes. I think I was holding my breath, I can't be sure, but if I was, then I may hold a new record. I slowly and cautiously typed an appointment, answered the ringing phone, greeted several patients and began a regular work day at the dental office.

I took time to make a list of all the things that would have been lost. It seemed daunting. Not only did we lose patient daily appointments, but we lost every payment made for one month's time; that meant insurance payments, cash, checks and credit cards. How would I find them?

Luckily I'm an old-fashioned type who still writes most everything down, though it is a lot of extra work. We keep a booklet on the cash entered, every patient that had come in during that time had sticky notes in their charts with insurance information, and I actually had printed sheets that showed every single person that came in through the last four weeks of missing info!

Go ahead, make fun of me for not "getting with the times" and loving electronics and going paperless, but in this instance, it was a blessing for our office that we didn't completely change over yet.

Little by little, I began to crawl out of the hole. Our other front desk girl had her hands full with her own duties, and between us both, we began to see a crack of light in the dark, dark tunnel.

I had pictured myself never smiling again. I had pictured this summer being one long drawn out time at work, never enjoying a moment of it since we had so much to do with this issue. Not only are we about forty percent better right now, but my co-worker and I found time to laugh and giggle. What felt like an impossibility became possible.

Is it going to be perfect? Nope. Because we lost the daily patient appointments for the next month, and every time our door opens, we aren't exactly sure who is going to walk through it. Can we do it though? You bet. We can do it with smiles on our faces, a song in our heart, a good attitude, and God's help.

Have me and my co-worker been praying about this? Yes. For I believe God is concerned about everything in our lives. From what we may see as mundane or trivial, or what may feel insurmountable and hopeless, there's always hope. He does care. No, He isn't going to snap His fingers and take this all away, but with His help, we are able to do what we thought we couldn't. I know I would not be anywhere without Him. When I try to tackle anything, any task on my own without first consulting God, when I plunge straight ahead making my own decisions without seeking His guidance, I am lost. He has given me the peace, the intelligence, the drive to push forward with this mountain before me, this long path ahead, and instead of losing my joy over what I felt was impossible, I now can look with hope to each day bringing something new and unexpected.

I Want That

I've been looking at Debbie Macomber's Facebook page, reading more about her in Guidepost magazine and such. I like her face. It's always cheery and sunny. She reflects goodness to me, and when I read her posts, I feel that she really cares about her readers and fans.

I want that. I want to make people happy with my written words. I want stories of the humanness of people, and how they overcome obstacles and find God. I want that. I want to have a face filled with sunshine and goodness. I want to care about each person that reads something from me.

I want to lead people to Christ with my words, show them that there's something bigger than their problems, encourage and give them hope. I want that.

I want my life to be a testimony of goodness, no matter how much I've messed up or continue to do so, I want my words to be seasoned and tempered. I want that.

What do you want? Have you asked yourself that lately? Are you so caught up in daily life, problems and issues you have no control over? Have you long since given up on your dreams and plans thinking that you're too old, or heaven forbid, not good enough. What are you willing to do about it?

I blog, I write stories. I listen to people's stories. I try to live in a way that would make my parent's proud, my son proud. Do I always succeed? Nope. But I'm not sitting there, gathering dust, wondering what if? Or what could be.

I mess up, pick myself back up, and try, try again. I have dreams, goals and desires, and I want to make them come true, if that's what God wills.

Don't be afraid. Step out. Step up. Live your life and try something new. Want something with all your heart? Ask God. Never stop asking Him. And wait for His answer. It may surprise you. Sometimes it's a still, small voice, a nagging feeling you may have. Other times, a door opens wide, and God is there waiting with open arms, inviting you to live the life you were meant to live.

Let's all want that. Let's want to do more for Him. In doing so, we will find the gifts and talents that are lying just beneath the surface. Those things we are good at, or are supposed to do.

May you find yours.

The Memory Box

It sits in the back of my clothes cupboard. Years worth of cards, letters, pictures and memorabilia all are stuffed inside. I'd wanted to do a little organizing, so I pulled out the old memory box. I must have tried rearranging it once before, for I found birthday cards bundled together, each from a specific person: my husband, son, brother and parents. Other assorted items lay in the bottom: a broken piece of a hockey stick signed by a favorite player from when I was younger. A plastic heart necklace from some kids I taught Sunday school to back in the early eighties. Items from my Nonna who had passed away long ago. It had been a long time since I'd viewed the contents of this box. What other treasures would I find?

I began opening the cards. There were humorous ones from my brother. We'd always had the type of relationship where we ribbed one another mercilessly. He would comment on birthday cards of how old I was getting--since I'm fourteen years his senior--and would include little drawings and sayings that had meant something to us through the years.

I opened cards from old friends, people I hadn't seen in a while. I found thank you's and good wishes from people when I left a job I'd worked at for twenty-seven years. Some of the patients wishing me well in my new life, and a letter of recommendation from my old boss that warmed my heart.

When I found my son's cards, I paused and read each of them carefully. A mother treasures such things especially when you aren't always vocal about your feelings. The writing inside the cards spoke volumes to me about the way he felt. So much appreciation for me as a mom. And love that he isn't able to express so easily.

The last batch of cards were from my parents. There were ones all the way back to the late seventies. There were humorous drawings from them, silly stick figures and animals that had made me laugh through the years. There were sayings from our favorite movies, and even some poetic prose from my mother. When I found a few letters my mother had written and carefully tucked into the birthday cards, I took the time to read them word for word. With her worsening dementia, it has become more important than ever to remember who she once was, and how caring and intelligent she'd been.

There were words from Mom that told of her happiness of our closeness. That we were more than mother and daughter, but best friends too. There were words that told of her feelings of love and how proud she'd been of me, though I'd always felt I messed up so terribly in my life. She called me her shining star, and said that if it wasn't for me, she didn't think she would have made it through some of the difficult times. I felt overwrought with emotion, and the words blurred on the pages of the letters as tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks. My husband asked why I was crying, and I couldn't bring to words what it meant to me finding these precious gifts tucked away in an old box.

I still need to weed through and do a bit more organizing. But today I'll do it with a lighter heart. For now I know just how much I've been loved and appreciated.

The Neighborhood Cat

He was orange and scruffy. He seemed ageless. He was bold, unafraid and in your face. He was friends with every child at the grade school down the road. His name was Tiger, and he was the neighborhood cat.

Just yesterday, my father asked me about that cat. My father is eighty-five, and I found myself amazed that the memory of Tiger popped into his head. "Kar," he asked. "Do you remember the cat that was friends with every kid at the school years back?"

I hadn't thought of Tiger in a while. But he is one cat I won't ever forget, especially since it meant so much to Dad to talk about him. It warmed me that thinking that the silly cat made my father smile and he couldn't stop talking about it for days.

Tiger would stand at the bus stop across the street waiting with a group of children for their morning ride to school. At the end of their day, he would trudge patiently and carefully across the street, once again, as if to welcome them home. There were times he would follow one particular child for a while, as if he knew that they needed a little extra care or friendship that day perhaps.

And Tiger would walk to the grade school near his own house, spending time just like one of the gang with groups of children, rubbing in and out of their ankles, looking up quizzically into their faces as if trying to understand what they were talking about.

The cutest story about this cat however happened when I sat watching a school concert one evening with friends. My son, Matt, was in a little chorus routine, and all of the moms jostled for position in the auditorium. It was a stuffy evening from what I remember, so the doors to the outside were propped wide open.

The lights dimmed, the children began to assemble in their places on the stage before us, when big as life, Tiger walked out onto the stage with them. Audience members couldn't believe it. That silly cat had gone too far. Boldly, brazenly walking not only into the auditorium, but also believing he had every right to be there with what he'd come to know as his friends.

Many people pulled out their video recorders and began filming, others erupted in laughter. One teacher went to shoo the cat from the stage, but of course the damage had already been done, and Tiger had completely stolen the show.

I never really found out what happened to that cat, as my own life got in the way. Rumor had it, that someone actually stole him from the neighborhood because they wanted to give him what they thought was a better home.

Whatever happened, I know that our lives are a little better for having known this special kitty. I learned some lessons from him. Be bold. Be friendly. Be caring. Be all "in your face" when you want something. Make new friends, keep the old. And rub a ton of ankles. Whatever will warm another person, that's what Tiger did. And that's something I'd like to do in this world. Touch lives and warm people with stories such as this one. There's so much seriousness. I want to be remembered like Tiger.