Loose Birds . . . I Understand

 

Mind you . . . I am not a fan of the president of our nation.  Not even close.  As far as I am concerned the man is an immoral, corrupt, nasty, lying individual who relishes the chaos and trauma he inflicts upon others—especially the citizens of the United States of America.  He is a buffoon . . . a clown with no admirable qualities.  I cannot stand the man. 

Knowing my own disdain for this individual I catch myself in a shockingly ironic position of understanding his recent “flipping” behavior with a heckler at a Dearborn, Michigan, Ford Plant.  We all saw it on the news, on social media, and across the Internet.  As tRump was touring the auto plant one of the laborers yelled at him, “Pedophile protector!”  Of course, we all know this is a reference to the Epstein files dealing with the sex trafficking scandal that just won’t go away for tRump.  Files that the president himself ordered to be fully released to the public back on December 19^th, 2025.  A date that has come and gone with little to show.  Nearly a month later less than ten percent of the files have been released.  Needless to say, the nation’s citizens are not happy.  They feel scammed . . . gaslighted . . . played for dupes.

 

It is a “touchy” subject for tRump.  A real irritation.  A rash that won’t go away.  It is no wonder that the laborer’s heckle got under the president’s skin.  Frustrated and angry the leader of the United States reacted like one of us . . . like a common person . . . he pointed at the guy and gave him the “finger” . . . flipped him off . . . gave him the “bird”.  In America there is no greater retort to express contempt and displeasure towards another than letting the “bird” fly.

 

I understand tRump’s behavior.  I understand where he is coming from.  It is a totally “American” reaction.  According to the White House Director of Communication, Steven Cheung, “. . . the president gave an appropriate and unambiguous response.”  Americans throw the “your number one” sign a million times a day.  So, why not the president of the United States of America?  If we are honest with ourselves, we must admit that we understand.  The insult has been around for generations, and we’ve even used it ourselves.

 

This is the frustrating part . . . we’ve all done it.  We have all “flipped” someone off.  Given someone the “finger” or the “bird”.  Declared them “number one”.  I know I have.  Probably more times than I would ever want to admit . . . especially when driving.  It’s a universal sign of displeasure and irritation with another person or group.  Get cut off—the “finger” is exposed.  The message is sent.

 

A couple of years ago I got disgusted with the frequency of my profane signaling while driving.  Tired of “flipping” people off.  That’s when I started to use sarcasm.  Everyone appreciates sarcasm.  Instead of giving other drivers the “finger”, I started to give them the “thumbs up” sign.  For a while I felt good about it . . . even thought it was humorous, but it didn’t feel the same.  Still did not reflect my frustration and anger towards that errant driver.  I’m human after all and the “bird” came back.  Sadly, I now use both hand signals saving the “finger” for those I perceive as the most offensive.

 

That’s the kicker.  The “finger” that the president flashed at his heckler is offensive.  It has always been offensive.  We all know what it means.  It is as old as the Pantheon . . . the ancient Greeks used it to express displeasure towards others.  In ancient Rome it was a physical threat.  One story explaining the origin is the Agincourt myth.  According to the story it was 1415 during a battle between the English and French at Agincourt.  The English used longbows which were a powerful weapon.  The French feared the weapons and when they would capture these English soldiers, they would cut off their middle finger.  Without this finger, the bow couldn’t be used effectively.  They thought this would keep the English from fighting in the future battles.

 

Well, the English won the battle, they mocked the French by showing that they still had their middle fingers.  English longbows were made from yew trees.  Pulling back the bowstring was called “plucking the yew”.  Taunting the French, the English waved their middle fingers while proclaiming, “See, we can still pluck you!”  It eventually evolves into the gesture we know today . . . “pluck yew!”  I think you got the picture.

 

Okay . . . it was inappropriate for the president to “flip” off the factory disgruntled factory worker no matter how infuriating the statement was.  Also, it was inappropriate for the laborer to say what he said no matter how truthful it might be.  This was not hospitality . . . not the way to treat a guest no matter how vile that person might be.  As for the president . . . well, it’s not the behavior we expect from the greatest leader of the free world.  We expect much more from our president.  Yet . . . come on!  We would have done the same thing had we been being hassled and heckled.  We would have “flipped” the guy off too.

 

That is the whole frustrating part of this scenario . . . as much as I cannot stand this individual or his behavior and actions . . . I understand his knee-jerk response.  Though I don’t agree with what he did, I understand.  And if we are honest with ourselves, we have to admit that we understand too.  It’s kind of an icky feeling wouldn’t you say?  Ironic in that we catch ourselves lowered to and on the same level as someone we despise.

 

At the same time, I am not fooling myself.  The gesture by tRump might come across as an ill-gotten moment of frustration and contempt . . . a slip of the finger . . . a mistake by the president.  But it wasn’t.  No, it was more of a revealing Freudian slip.  An inner thought that expressed what the president really thinks about others . . . about the world and nation . . . about us as the citizens he represents.  A “oops, did I say that out loud” moment.  Most of the time he just expresses them through his daily actions of creating chaos and trauma—not a profane gesture.  This individua—tRump—does not like us or our nation.  He expresses it daily waving his middle finger at us, taunting us . . . proclaiming, “Pluck Yew!” Maybe he will add the symbolic gesture to his verbal repertoire and start being congruent.  Wouldn’t surprise me.

 

As I stated earlier, I am not a fan of tRump.  No, I am far from it.  Much of what this individual represents and does makes me sick and angry.  He is despicable.  Though I do not agree with his recent “flippant” behavior . . . I understand.  As we have witnessed, it will continue to get worse.  The individual knows it.  He doesn’t care.  The emperor’s new clothes are being exposed for what they are . . . nothing!  And he knows it.  He is cracking and his opposition knows it.  Does he care?  Naw, he’s just letting the “bird” fly.

Tired

“Only in the darkness can you see the stars.”

(Martin Luther King Jr.)

Tired.

That sums it up . . . I am tired.  After several weeks of short nights dealing with our son’s seizures . . . I am tired.  After several days of having to leave work early to deal or son’s seizures . . . I am tired.  After sitting in the hospital emergency for several hours dealing with doctors about our son’s seizures . . . I am tired.  I am tired of the sleepless nights . . . the frightening screams . . . the seizure wracking paralyze . . . the sympathy of medical people who have no answers . . . have no cures.  I am tired of this nightmare that never seems to end after more than nineteen years.  Yeah, think that sums it up . . . I am tired.  It never changes.

A friend of mine calls it SSDD . . . Same Sh**Different Day.  At least that is what she posted on her Facebook page this evening when she shared the news about her daughter’s appointment at a regional hospital with specialists to deal with a chronic condition.  The news was not good . . . basically the daughter was told that there was nothing that could be done at this time . . . told that she had already been seen by the best and if they couldn’t help, why in the world did she think that they (the new medical team) could . . . basically she was told to grin and bear it . . . nothing was going to change.  It really was not the news that she or her family or friends wanted to hear.  Kind of took the hope right out of that last balloon that they had found.  It sucked . . . and, from the post on Facebook, I think they are all tired.

Chronic illnesses and conditions are tiresome.  Tiresome for the person having to endure them . . . tiresome for the people who love and take care of them.  It is not good for people to get tired.  When people get tired they easily get frustrated . . . they easily anger . . . they easily give up hope.  Giving up hope is the worse.  When hope is gone . . . what else is there?

I feel for my friend, her daughter, and all those who have been circling their lives with prayer and hope . . . and, now they are tired.  They prayed . . . but did not receive the healing, cure, or even a reduction in pain.  They sought expert opinion . . . and the medical experts had no answers or solutions.  They felt patronized as they left the hospital and wished “good luck” . . . and like they were saying, “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt when you leave.”  Chronic illness is a tiresome roller coaster and now they feel as if they derailed.  Knowing this friend, there was resignation in her post . . . there was tiredness . . . a loss of hope.

Yes, I feel for my friend.  I know what she feels because I too have been tired and hopeless . . . just like now.  I have watched my number three child, my number two son, deal with this crippling disability for nearly nineteen years.  I have witnessed how the Epilepsy has robbed him of a normal life.  I have seen how it has made him a social outcast and ignored or even spurned by a lot of the world around him . . . seen as valueless.  I have sat beside him as he cried and mourned that his life was not like all the other people who were his age . . . cried and mourned that he cannot see a life like his siblings in the future . . . a wife, children.  I have seen him get up for new treatments, and I have seen him blown out of the water when they produced nothing but wasted time.  Up the roller coaster, down the roller coaster . . . off the tracks . . . get up and do it again.  It is tiresome.

I have often wondered about whether or not there is some hidden limit on how many times a person can go up and down this emotional roller coaster before enough is enough.  Is it a couple of times?  Is it a thousand times?  A million?  Well, I imagine that our son, my wife, family, and I have hit those peaks a couple of times . . . and, what do others tell us . . . hang in there . . . it will get better . . . we are praying for you.  Nice platitudes, but it does nothing to ease the tiredness . . . nothing to restore the hope.

Anyone who deals with a chronic illness or disabilities knows the routine well . . . anyone who loves and cares for a person with a chronic illness or disability knows the routines well . . . up and down, all around, and do it all over again . . . over and over.  They know all the pat answers . . . all the nice words of comfort . . . all the routines of those around them who cannot help.  They have been angry at God . . . angry at the doctors . . . angry at each other . . . and, just plain angry.  God doesn’t seem to care or help . . . doctors “practice” medicine and really are only guessing at what might help . . . the world seems small and the people in it are irritating even though we love them . . . and, in the tiredness there is anger.  When the anger ends . . . hope is lost.

I have spent a life time on this roller coaster.  I have witnessed the lives of my two brothers who have disabilities . . . over fifty-some years now.  I have witnessed it in the life of my son as he battles Epilepsy.  I have seen it in the lives of the people I have served as a minister for over thirty-some years.  I have seen it in the lives of friends.  I have railed against God . . . and, I have railed with God.  I have cried with loved ones . . . and I have yelled at loved ones.  I have been angry at the world . . . and, angry with the world.  I have been tired . . . and, I have given up hope.

My mother lived a hard life.  She understood that life is not easy . . . that life is difficult.  She struggled with me through some difficult times in my life.  I will always remember her words to me in those times of struggle . . . “This too shall pass.” 

“This too shall pass.”

She was right.  When it was darkest . . . the stars came out.  Here in Montana I only have to step out on the back porch and look to the heavens to see millions upon millions of stars piercing the darkness.  Surprisingly, I find hope there in the darkness as the stars sparkle in the sky.  There is hope . . . there is always hope.  Tonight, before I go to bed, I will step out onto the porch, look to the heavens, and survey the vastness of God’s glorious touch to witness the stars.  I will breathe deeply of the cool nighttime air . . . close my eyes . . . and whisper, “Okay, God . . . one more time.”  Then tomorrow I will get up and do it all over again.  Yeah, my friend calls it SSDD . . . maybe it is the thin thread of hope . . . the spark to start the fire going one more time.  I don’t know . . .

To my friend . . . to all those who carry this weight . . . I know your pain, your tiredness, your hopelessness.  I also know, that you have seen the stars and that there is always hope.  It may not seem like it right at this moment . . . but this too will pass.  No, not the chronic illness or disability, but this feeling of hopelessness.   Those stars that pierce the darkness are symbolic of the gifts of God’s presence that pierce the darkness of this roller coaster journey.  They are all around . . . they may not know what to say or do . . . but they care and surround all of us with their love and prayers.  They pierce the darkness of our world.  There is hope . . . always hope.  I know that you, my friend, will get up and do it all over again.  Why? Because we care . . . because we love . . . and, because we do have hope.  God hasn’t abandon us, so why should we abandon God?

Yeah, I am tired . . . but “this too shall pass.”

Hope . . . what a strange and terrifying trip!

Hulking Out

I probably did not react in the best manner . . . duh!

Coming in the front door of the house I was greeted by one son holding a rag to his bleeding head, the other son over by the stove in the kitchen sweeping the glass up off the floor.  Behind the son sweeping the floor was the busted glass front of the stove.  Zero to sixty in seconds flat!  That is how I reacted . . . I lost it . . . I was angry.  Angry over what, I wasn’t sure, but I was sure I was angry.  I blew up and, I blew it.

It has been said that we save the best . . . and, the worse . . . for those we love the most.  I won’t disagree with that statement one bit.  Whenever anyone I love—family or friend—is threatened or hurt, I Incredible Hulk out.  I go on the attack . . . I am ready for a fight . . . ready to hurt whoever or whatever it is that has hurt my loved one.  I shoot first and ask questions later.  Not the best response mechanism . . . especially plays havoc on one’s blood pressure, but I have been that way all of my life.  Seeing the scene . . . I Hulked out.  For better or worse, I got angry.

Anger . . . yeah, there was yelling.  Anger . . . there was stomping around.  Anger . . . there were profane words thrown out.  Anger . . . and, there was some more yelling.  Of course, none of this helps the situation.  The situation was that the younger son, who has Epilepsy, was rounding the corner in the kitchen, by the stove, had a seizure, fell down, hit the glass in the stove door (the whole front of the oven is glass), and shattered it all.  He scraped his head (thus the rag over the head), cut his elbow, but was okay otherwise . . . oh sure, he was upset and frustrated, but he was okay.  The other son was being helpful, had helped his brother, and was cleaning up the mess.  Of course, the anger I was exhibiting was not actually helping . . . no one was being protected, no one was being rescued . . . it was pure unadulterated angry . . . a regular ol’ hissy fit!

In the process of un-Hulking, a myriad of emotions, feelings, and thoughts go through my rock garden of a mind . . . primarily how stupidly I had acted or reacted . . . embarrassed more or less . . . and, remorseful.  When everyone, my children, needed the best, they got the worse . . . and, yeah, I love them to the bottom of my heart and beyond.  Reconciliation was necessary and needed . . .

. . . so, I apologized.

I was not angry at my sons . . . I wanted to protect them from what hideous thing it was that had threatened them.  I was relieved that no one was hurt any worse than they were . . . it could have been worse.  I was not angry that the stove door now was broken and needed to be replaced at several hundreds of dollars . . . stove doors are cheap in comparison of replacing a child or a relationship with a child.  But, I had been angry.  Before I could apologize I had to know and understand the source of my anger.

The family, more the wife and I, have been dealing with our son’s Epilepsy for over 18 long years.  We have endured countless sleepless nights . . . more visits to hospital emergency rooms than we can count.  We have watched this disability wrack our son’s body and life for years and years.  We have witnessed numerous IV lines shoved into his arm . . . endured every drug he has taken to combat the Epilepsy . . . and, helpless stood by and watched as they cut open his head, messed around his brain, and sewed him up.  We have stood by our son as he was bullied through school, ignored by teachers who were ignorant of the disability, forgotten by those who should care, and given the run around by countless organizations designated to help.  And . . . nothing has changed in over 18 years.

The form of Epilepsy our son suffers from is a cruel form . . . a silent culprit that shows no rhyme or reason to its activity.  Someone once asked me to describe what it was like . . . all I could say is that it was like someone sneaking up behind you with a baseball bat and hitting you in the head when you least expect it.  Knocking you flat.  Depending on which medical expert you want to quote, the cause of Epilepsy is unknown in 70 to 90 percent of the cases . . . our son’s is in that “unknown” category.  Yet, one has to grasp for whatever hope there is whether it is 30 percent or ten percent.  After 18 years of treatment nothing has changed . . . despite the huge amount of money that we have spent . . . despite countless doctors and experts . . . despite every conceivable drug . . . neurological surgery . . . counseling.  It has been a long, frustrating journey . . . and, we have not even begun to see the end.

What broke the dam?  What brought on the flood of anger?  Hmmmm . . . I wonder . . . maybe countless years of frustration.  Frustration that goes beyond my own son’s Epilepsy . . . frustration of having two brothers with disabilities as I grew up . . . frustration of having to relive all the problems again . . . with no solutions, no answers.  My brothers are both still alive, living productive lives . . . but my sister has sacrificially taken care of them for years as I have never lived close to my family since graduating from high school.  I stand in amazement and awe of her ability to do it.  I was angry, and my anger was at the Epilepsy.  A never-ending curse upon our lives.

As Christians we are urged by popular thought to think and believe that God does not give us any more than we can handle in life . . . phfttt!  That is nonsense.  I think God would even agree . . . sometimes life is just more than any of us can handle.  I don’t blame God.  First of all, God did not do this.  Secondly, the wife and I have not committed some terrible sin that has brought this upon us or our son.  It is not God’s fault, nor is it our fault.  These were just the cards that we were dealt . . . and, these are the cards we have to play.  As much as it sucks . . . well, it sucks.

I have never pulled a Job on God.  I have never ranted and raved at God as to why this was happening to any of us.  As I said, God didn’t do it.  It is just what it is.  We—the wife and I—have never blamed God.  But, God has caught our anger . . . and, God understands our anger.  God understands because it angers God, too.  The problem is that I don’t like the fact that there are no answers . . . I don’t like that there is no pill that cures the disability . . . I don’t like that my son has to struggle so hard every day just to have a so-called normal day that the rest of us take for granted . . . I don’t like the way that people treat my son and have exiled him to the borders of life and society . . . it sucks and it make me angry.

And, so, I went to apologize.  First, to the son with Epilepsy.  I explained that I was not mad at him . . . poop happens and we are fairly used to it happening with the Epilepsy.  I explained that I was not mad about the stove door . . . hey, what is a couple of hundred dollars when we know that he was okay.  And, I admitted that I screwed up, wanted to protect him from the enemy . . . but, because there was no enemy to attack, the worse was dumped on him and his brother.  I was so, so sorry.

Then, I went and apologized to his brother.  These two have a difficult “love/hate” relationship . . . at times there is no love lost between them.  I explained the same things to him . . . apologized profusely.  This is the son, who over the last couple of months hasn’t been the most loving towards his brother (and vice-a-versa), came to his brother’s need . . . helped him, cared for him, and cleaned up his brother’s mess.  He lived what he always proclaims, “Family comes first.”  I was proud of him . . . and, proud of his brother for letting him help when he needed someone.

The Hulk has crawled back into that deep, dark place to hide . . . to hide the next time I perceive a threat to those I love.  I hope the Hulk stays there for awhile . . . I don’t enjoy the Hulk when he appears in my form.  And, the weird thing, which is what stresses the Hulk so much (I think), is that the whole time it is happening we both know how helpless we are in stopping it.  We just lose it . . . right or wrong.

I am not alone . . . I know that.  I have known that since I was a small child.  There are many others who deal with the disabilities of their children . . . and, their own disabilities.  There are others who don’t understand the question of why . . . nor the silence that answers their questions.  Others who suffer for their children . . .

No, I am not alone . . . but so often it feels as if I am.  Forgotten.  Ignored.  And, that too, is a part of the anger.  God understands and weeps with me.  Yeah, I did not react in the best manner, but I reacted in a very human manner . . . those who love me understand even if I, myself, don’t.  For that I am thankful for the love and grace of family.

A Broken Stitch

“A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.”

(Josh Billings)

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

(Roger Caras)

In Alcoholics Anonymous they say, “Shit happens” . . . especially when you least expect it and want it.  This morning, around 10AM, our Boxer—Maddie Rose—suffered a seizure and died.  Our son, number 2, who has Epilepsy witnessed it all and tried in vain to help her . . . but to no avail.  I got the tearful phone call at work around 10:30AM . . . he couldn’t get a response out of her . . . through his tears he thought she was dead.  I was floored as I left the conference call I was in, attempting to console him and tell him that everything was okay . . . all the while I could feel the shards of my broken heart falling . . . falling.  I could feel the tears swelling up in my eyes . . .

Needless to say, I did not make it through the conference call.  I excused myself and went home . . . it was the longest forty minute commute I have ever experienced.  I fought my tears all the way home in hopes that Maddie Rose would be okay, all the while knowing that she was dead.  Isn’t that what we do?  Hope for the best when we know that the worse has already happened . . . I don’t do well with a broken heart . . . who does?

Maddie Rose entered my life over nine years ago as a itty bitty puppy.  She was the 11^th of 12 puppies, and she became the caboose when #12 died.  She was the runt of the litter who was lovingly nursed to health by my friend.  She was presented to me while I was in the hospital recovering from my very first hernia surgery—in which I caught pneumonia and ended up spending a week in the hospital.  She was brought to me to cheer me up.  It was love at first sight.  From then on she became my constant companion . . . for years, everywhere I went, she went.  Always by my side. 

Hours later, as I write this, she is gone . . . she has died.  Like everyone who loses a loved one to death, I have gone through all of the feelings and emotions.  This morning was one of those rare mornings when I did not have the opportunity to have my “Maddie time” as I was leaving early—3:30AM early—to take the oldest son to the airport.  I did not get the chance to say hello—or even goodbye—to Maddie before I left . . . a daily ritual we always shared when I was preparing to leave.  I am angry about that . . . but, the angry only shadows the sadness and grief I am really feeling.  Yeah, I have been through them all . . . sadness, anger, guilt, loneliness . . . I don’t think I have missed any of them . . . they were, and are, at the party.  None of it replaces Maddie’s presence in my life . . . I miss my dog.

Who wouldn’t?

Maddie Rose was the best dog I have ever had.  She was faithful . . . caring . . . gentle . . . she was a lover.  They say that Boxers are the world’s biggest lap dogs, and Maddie sure loved the lap.  She always had to be touching . . . reminding you that she was there.  She was the world’s best greeter—didn’t matter if you had been gone for a year or ten minutes, she was always there, leaning against you, wagging that stub of a tail, licking your face—the Boxer dance of joy.  God, I loved being greeted with such enthusiasm.  She made me feel as if I was someone important when no one else seemed to care. 

She was gentle . . . and, she was an introvert.  She was a shy dog that took her time sizing up people before she welcomed them into her world, but once she did . . . watch out!  She was your best friend, and she had lots of best friends.  She was quiet . . . she rarely barked, but when she did . . . you had better listen.  People were always surprised when she barked because she had such a deep voice.  Her bark was way worse than her bite . . . she never bit anyone or anything . . . she was a lover, not a fighter.

This probably sounds like a lot of rambling around, but isn’t that what we do when we lose someone or something that we love to the core of our being . . . we ramble.  All I know is that I lost a being that was dear to my heart . . . a companion who shared my life with me . . . who cared about me . . . who loved me . . . and I love her equally as well . . . and, now she is gone.  Like a flash of lightening . . . she has disappeared into the darkness.  Who would have thought that over nine years ago that the two of us would have crossed a line, jumped into a world of life’s endless possibilities for wonder and joy and surprise of what we would experience together.  She had me from that very first moment when she leaped up those hospital covers, shoved her face into mine, and gave me that great big puppy kiss.  I was hers and she was mine.

Carolyn Parkhurst writes: “The conclusion I have reached is that, above all, dogs are witnesses. They are allowed access to our most private moments. They are there when we think we are alone. Think of what they could tell us. They sit on the laps of presidents. They see acts of love and violence, quarrels and feuds, and the secret play of children. If they could tell us everything they have seen, all of the gaps of our lives would stitch themselves together.”

The stitch has been broken . . . I miss my dog.  I will dream of her and gentle, sloppy dog kisses.  Maddie Rose will be missed . . . by me, by the family, and by the countless people whose lives she has touched.  She was a gift . . . a blessing . . . and, we just do not get enough of those in our lives.  I wish I could stitch it all back together again . . .