Saturday, September 28, 2013


If y'all tuned in today for a deep spiritual thought- you might as well hop over to another blog. Because that is just not the kind of day we're having around here. But, then again - after the week we've had, I think it is nothing short of a miracle that we are all in the same place at the same time and there is no fight going on. In fact - we're having a lot of fun.

By the way- everyone within the sound of my voice is cordially invited to come hear Zeb Mathews in a mini-concert at Twin Bridges Baptist Church in Alexandria. For tickets, call 1-888-HEARZEB or visit ticketmaster.com.

Not really- but just give this boy a few years, y'all:


It's been a great hand-me-down day for Matthew. Thanks to Toby, he now can dress in camo from head to toe. Rendering him practically invisible. (Except for the noise). He is also sporting a pair of Toby's outgrown boots- a contribution that was very quickly regretted, since they are a size and a half too big for him and he sounds like a herd of Clydesdales stomping through the house. But he's looking good...



And here's Grace and Sadie. Cute little resemblance here, huh?


And here we have Mike Wysowski's girlfriend. An image created during the inevitable digression of our time management skills called "Cam Wow".



So that's where we are, y'all. But you know what? Most of my happiest memories happened on regular, hanging-out, relaxing Saturdays. We plan and orchestrate special occasions in our lives- but the everyday moments hold the treasures.

I hope y'all have had a great Saturday too. Especially the 16 people in Indonesia who have visited my blog. That just amazes me - but then, a lot amazes me. An eternal childlike viewpoint of things IS one of the things I enjoy about myself. It just makes life a lot more fun.

This is Sandybunn, reporting live from Albert Street for The News From Pizza Hut Heights.



Wednesday, September 25, 2013


Ok y'all- I'm pretty sure Satan is reading my blog. 

And I'm pretty sure I've pissed him off. 

(If my use of the phrase "pissed off" offends you - it's another warning bell that you're on the wrong blog. Just saying.)

My pal loves to remind me that I'm a slow learner. And in sooooooooo many ways - this is the truth. For years...and years...and years- friends have been telling me to write. Many, many people. And now that I've had a small glimpse that my words may actually be encouraging others who read them - I'm dumbfounded. 

Writing is like playing the piano for me - it comes from my heart. From a place that I KNOW is the Lord. I go back and read stuff I've written, and it speaks to ME. That's just hilariously ironic to me. 

I can remember many times that I've heard someone talk about how they could tell the Lord was using them and working in their life because Satan was obviously working against them. I would wistfully think, "wow - I wish that would happen to me. It would be so neat to feel that something I was doing for Him was important enough to rile up Satan". 

That was an incredibly stupid thing to wistfully think.

And apparently, to use the phrase "life is good" in a blog is incredibly stupid, too. 

Because that was day before yesterday, and by today life is SO "not good" that I've lost two pounds in two days and I have pretty good proof that it was two pounds of snot and tears.

Plus - remember my tendency to holler out things at my kids that I would NOT want everyone in the world to read? Yeah, that. 

"Above all, put on love". What a joke, Sandy.

It's been a rough couple of days. 

Last night as I leaked out another gallon of tears onto my pillowcase- the thought crossed my mind to post a prayer request on Facebook. I was going to say: "if you know me, please pray for me". I immediately decided not to. After all - my Facebook friends have seen that I've posted a blog about my life. Some have said it encouraged them. How in the world would it look for me to post a whiny-butt prayer request?

Just then the Lord near about popped my jaws. 

(That sentence right there is a product of my rich Southern heritage. A heritage in which the phrase "near about" means "almost" but just says it better. And how many times did I hear Mama threaten to "pop my jaws"? I don't think she ever actually did it - but the sound of it was ominous enough to right the wayward soul.)

Anyway, I use that slightly irreverent analogy to describe a stab of conviction so sharp and painful, it was almost like a slap to my spirit. I am never more than one small step from certain ruin. The instant I think that even for a brief moment I am capable of anything - ANYTHING in my own strength, I have crashed and burned. 

Life IS good - even when it's not good, if it is the life He gives. A life where struggles can be shared and miraculously find new life as encouragement. Where lifting someone else up in prayer also lifts us up, because time spent talking with Him about anything is NOT "time well spent"- it's the preview of eternity.

Only through His strength is there any hope. Satan is alive and well, and would love nothing more than to silence even a small, pitiful voice like mine that speaks of the hope that IS found in His strength. So pray away, my sweet friends. Anytime. 

And you might want to reeeeeeally step it up tonight, y'all. I'm pretty sure Satan won't be pinning this blog entry on his "My Favorite Things" board on Pinterest.

And the lights go out on another day here in Pizza Hut Heights.

Monday, September 23, 2013

My kids and I went to visit our friends in Benton this weekend. We enjoyed the belated birthday celebration for Matthew (complete with grilled chicken and all the fixings – including a cornbread salad that is worthy of its own blog entry), lots of fun, tons of laughter, and... the bathrooms.

Yes – the concept of a house containing four bathrooms is almost too much for us. Something about everyone getting to do their business at the same time – each on their own private throne – is just simply fascinating after a year here at the Heights.

(I totally understand the investment wisdom and resale value effect of owning a home with this many facilities. However – ownership of a home of this magnitude does rob a family of the camaraderie of a good rousing game of “Who Has To Go The Worst And Therefore Gets The Bathroom First” each time the family car pulls into the driveway. So, it’s all about what you really want out of life, y’all.)

Three years and three days ago I packed the minivan with enough clothes for a week, added my kids, and left our house in Georgia for a much-needed visit in Ruston. What I didn’t know as I left was that I would never return. There are those who will never believe that I didn’t plan it that way. But I didn’t. In an odd way –I was more surprised than anybody over the way things turned out. While I was away from the difficult situation, the Lord opened my eyes to the reality of how things truly were. Confiding in wise friends for counsel and a session with a Christian counselor defined the line drawn in the sand. Things. Were. Not. Right.

It has not been easy. And if I could have looked ahead to see just how hard things were going to be – I probably would have just dropped dead with dread. However, the thing I cannot explain is the wonder of His Provision. As I made decisions that went against everything I wanted for my life and the lives of my children – He never left me. Every time there was a question or a doubt – He provided unexplainable confirmations. Provided comfort when I was so hurt and shattered. Provided a shoulder to cry on when I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer.

(By the way – “holding in tears” is NOT my spiritual gift.)

Anyway – the road has not been a straight line, and it has not been smooth. I have learned to trust my gut. That feeling in the pit of my stomach that screamed “Something is not right. You can’t go on this way. Listen. Listen. LISTEN.” That same gut feeling has whispered from behind, from the left, and from the right – guiding and shepherding me like an internal compass.

And so, here I sit. A divorced mother of two with a Southern Baptist seminary degree that is about as useful as a certificate of attendance at a juggling expo.

Yet life is good – or at least well on the way to being good. I could have never dreamed I could approach each day with the joy and expectation that I do. Being a music teacher is something that I feel was inside me all along – just waiting for the right time to come to the surface. To see my precious kids have the opportunity to grow in freedom and happiness makes every scar worth the pain.

Every single relationship and experience in my life has filled in the gaps and crevices of the puzzle to make my life what it is today. Many of you reading are part of that beautiful tapestry. Some of you might not agree with or support the path my situation has led me down – and I understand and respect that. You see, there was a time not so long ago that I would have shaken my head in pity and concern at a woman who made the series of decisions that I made. But my experience has taught me a deep, cutting lesson: You never, never know what a person is enduring behind the scenes. You never know the agony in a soul that rises to the surface at night in the dark and the silence. You never know.

In my typical style of being very concerned with things that really don’t matter all that much – there is one thing that I am almost obsessed with losing. My set of fine china – most place settings purchased by people who knew and loved me since before I was born – was lost to me. There are countless other things that are much more practical that I could yearn for, but the remembrance of those beautiful plates with the navy and gold edging and the cups that felt so elegant in my hand seldom ceases to bring tears to my eyes. There are other dishes to be had – and I vow to buy myself some one day soon. The thing that breaks my heart is that we ate on these dishes maybe a dozen times. I was saving them for special occasions. They never came.

Don’t save the beautiful things in life for special occasions. Pour beauty and laughter and love generously into every moment. Every moment you breathe and laugh and love is worth celebrating.

The sun is still shining on this beautiful fall day here in Pizza Hut Heights. But the lights will be going out early tonight.

After we all have one last turn in THE bathroom.




Wednesday, September 11, 2013

This afternoon Coach Barmore posted a picture on Facebook of Mr. Holder.

Mr. Holder was my art teacher at Cedar Creek. As a child in his classroom, I thought of him as really old. And apparently he was, because he is now 92. My memories of him involve the smell of oil pastels, the confusion over using something to draw with that was impossible to erase (a charcoal pencil), and the taste of plaster of Paris powder.

(I'm sure it wasn't supposed to get in my mouth- but it did- because right now as I sit here typing I can feel and taste that sharp, chalky tang.)

I'm sure Mr. Holder has no memory whatsoever of me. There is no doubt in my mind that I was the most nondescript, nontalented art student the poor man ever had cross his classroom threshold.

It's forty years later- and I still haven't hit one developmental milestone artistically. When I wrote curriculum for Lifeway Christian Resources, my most HATED part of the process was the art suggestions. This was where (hypothetically) we sketched out the artwork and teaching picture ideas. (In referring to my own work, I use the term "sketch" loosely.)  I'm convinced there was a group of art consultants who gathered eagerly in some ninth floor office in downtown Nashville to await the arrival of my units- because of how hilarious my drawing attempts were. They probably popped a big bowl of popcorn and settled down for a bigger laugh-fest than the latest Madea movie.

 According to me- Bible times consisted of a bunch of stick men running around  with heads that were a cross between Wolfman Jack and the Cowardly Lion. (I always gave Jesus the respect He deserved - a big arrow pointing at him with "Jesus" printed above it. Just so they would know to quit laughing for a second.)

(By the way - my lack of artistic ability is absolutely no reflection on Mr. Holder. Since he's still alive and running around out there - I just wanted to get that straight.)

The point is - I would have never guessed Mr. Holder was still alive. Yet he has lived nearly HALF his life SINCE the days I would have pegged him as ancient. Back when I would have guessed he was nearly to the finish line - he was just getting in his groove.

In sharp, sorrowful contrast - we all felt the damp cloud of hurt tonight at church. The death of our pastor is still a fresh wound, with the healing tendrils of time just beginning to grow across the memories. And now another young man joins him on the other side of the veil. Fifty years old. Young, vibrant, in the prime of his life. Except that his earthly life ended yesterday.

It's very sobering for a peer to die. When you remember riding the bus on youth trips with someone - it's hitting close to home to realize their time on Earth is over.

It makes me wonder - how differently would I live my life, TOMORROW, if I knew I was beginning the last month of my days? Would the things I consider important really deserve any priority? What would I cut out of my schedule? What would I make sure I paid attention to diligently every waking moment?

On the other hand- how differently would I live if I knew tomorrow was just the beginning of the last half of my days? Would I be quite so discouraged over starting a new career at forty-seven? Would I give in quite so often to fatigue - or work harder to condition my body to be healthy for the next fifty years?

The fact is - either of these could be the case. Any one of the doctor's appointments on my calendar could slam me in the face with unbelievably horrible news. Devastatingly terrible odds. Or....I could outlive the doctors I trust with my care. Might find myself looking for a new doctor in a few years (probably one young enough to be my grandchild).

Uncertainty. We all live with it every day. My prayer is that uncertainty will inspire me to capture every droplet of joy in every moment. "Making the best use of my time, because the days are evil." Eph. 5:16.

But may uncertainty also give me the freedom and courage to find and try new things. The perspective to face the future with anticipation. The wisdom to plan and order my days in such a way that my life is a heritage for my kids - whether they watch me for another five years or another fifty.

You can count on Matthew to introduce a sliver of humor into almost any situation:

Yesterday when I picked him up from school - he updated me on the fact that his teacher's father-in-law was very, very sick. "I know" was my answer. "No, Mama - he is really sick. Like - he's so sick that they know he's going to die. So we really need to be praying for him." I agreed  - and we discussed the situation and prayed as we continued on our way home.

Last night I received a text informing me that my friend Greg - Matthew's teacher's father-in-law - had died. I quietly passed the news along to Matthew. He sat straight up in bed and exclaimed with sincere exasperation, "What? We didn't even get to pray for him that long!"

In his mind - the illness was new. Having just learned of it - he assumed it had just begun. He was obviously concerned that he did NOT have adequate time to approach the throne about this situation before it ended.

In a world full of uncertainty - I am constantly thankful for a Lord who is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

(I hate to break the news to Mr. Holder - but I don't think I will have developed much more artistically in another forty years. Guess I need to be looking for an illustrator if I'm going to keep writing...)

And the lights go out on another day here in Pizza Hut Heights.







Monday, September 9, 2013

It's Monday. Ugh.

When my days begin at 5am - there is little chance that I'm going to get my second wind after school. Because I barely have a first wind - and it is certainly gone by 4pm. So today I came home and told my kids to take a break while I rested a minute. Or forty-eight.

Until the bedside lamp being knocked over on my head woke me up. Along with the sound of a babbling brook of unsweetened iced tea running down the edge of my nightstand. So I calmly sat up and called:

"Sweet children, my precious gifts from God - yes, the two of you - whom I love more than anything else on this Earth and sacrifice everything for gladly and with great joy - could you come assist me? Your cute furry pet has gotten a little rowdy and caused a wee mishap."

Or else I hollered out something that I would be ashamed to write for the entire world to read.

And maybe even threatened to throw the cat out into the driveway (which we all know would be a terribly insensitive thing to holler out after the unfortunate event last week).

Just like Jesus. "Above all, put on love". Good job AGAIN, Sandy.

Isn't that always how it is? We lash out and hurt the ones we love the most. The ones we would take fifty bullets for are the very ones we shoot down with sharp, stinging words. The ones we hold closest to our hearts are the ones we push away when we are angry and tired. In the heat of the moment - when my only hope of keeping it together is to fix my eyes on Jesus - I stubbornly turn away from Him so I can pitch my fit without having to look Him in the eye.

And then stomp off to drive a whopping three blocks to "get away". My therapy? Grocery shopping. Fun.

But even a trip to Super One can be relaxing when it is the first time in twelve hours that you have been without the company of someone (or twenty four someones) under the age of twelve. I feel like grocery shopping is somewhat of a "game show" right now - since we are now SEVENTEEN days away from my first pay check of the school year, and our freezer is roughly the size of two shoe boxes. I feel that my problem solving and engineering skills are really being developed during this season of my life.

Too bad my ability to hold my temper and behave like an adult aren't benefitting quite as much, huh?

After a good phone talk with my pal and some "Stomping Around Super One Therapy" - I felt ready to face my little world back at the Heights. I called ahead to tell the kids to get ready to come help me bring the groceries in.

They came down the stairs grinning - which immediately raised my suspicion. Cheerfully they carried the groceries up the stairs. At which point Matthew couldn't hold it in any longer. "Come look at my room, Mama. We cleaned up for you."

And they had. Matthew's room WAS clean. All the dishes were washed. The table was cleared off. Even "Lake Unsweetened Iced Tea" beside my bed had vanished. I walked back to the kitchen to thank them - and on the door of the fridge was the sight that cracked the last shard of hateful ice away and turned my heart to a warm puddle (which promptly began pouring out my eyes. AND my nose - since I am one of those "criers" that requires lots and lots and lots of tissue. Just ask my pal.)


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It's a humbling thing for your children to act more like Jesus than you do. 

It's all the daily days that make up the beautiful tapestry of life. The moments that slip away nearly unnoticed are the ones you look back on with such fondness.

My sister posted that she has something new on her bucket list: to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. (This is apparently a 30 mile hike up a mountain in the Andes. I told her I would go if I could ride in the bucket.) I'm assuming the last mile of that hike would be much tougher than the first mile. I remind myself of that as I look back at the mountain we have climbed together. So many times I have promised my kids, "We are almost to a better place, guys. We just have to keep going." So many times I have reminded them to look around and be thankful for all the million ways the Lord has provided for us and blessed us beyond measure.

How incredible for these two little souls to be the very ones who turn my eyes toward Him on a hot, sultry Monday when I've pitched a wall-eyed-hillbilly-hissy-fit.

Just before he dozed off, Matthew said, "Mama, is your school year going good? Because mine is. I think this year is turning out to be the best one yet. You're at my school some days and the school lunch is pretty good, once you get used to it. And even if I don't like it - they have pickled okra every day."

Well - there you go. I guess that does make for a pretty good scholastic experience when you get pickled okra every day at lunch.

I pray the Lord will continue to grab my chin and MAKE me look Him in the eye. Remind me to remember all the blessings and provision He has provided.

And pickled okra to boot.

And the lights go out on another day here in Pizza Hut Heights.


Saturday, September 7, 2013

Last week my sister posted a funny status update:

"My nephew marched into my apartment last night and declared, 'Hey, Aunt Becky! We went to the Duck Commander place!' Lol, really?? I never would have guessed. ;)"

Here's the accompanying photo:

 


Any resident of North Louisiana knows that the BEST way to impress ANYONE is to have a "Duck Dynasty Family Member Actual Sighting". I mean - let's forget the fact that there are a ton of woolly- booger looking men dressed in camo from head to toe with long hair and beards who go to "the Wal-Marts" looking like that all the time. Especially now that they can draw a crowd of wide-eyed camo-Crocs wearing kids trying to get up the nerve to speak to them. Once one of these characters is spotted and the Facebook status shared......wow. You've reeeeally got something to talk about.

I am very thankful for the Robertson family and their testimony for Christ.

(I am also thankful that they provided me with the opportunity to have a knock-down-drag-out-whisper-hissing brawl in the Family Christian Store tonight with my son because I refused to buy him a genuine Duck Commander duck call. To "toot" or "quack" or "whatever" while he wears his genuine Duck Commander t-shirt and genuine Duck Commander baseball hat. Because "twenty-five dollars is really cheap, Mama. They cost like two HUNDRED at the Duck Commander place". Thanks guys.)

Seriously though - the Robertson clan has brought fame and fortune to our area in a way that few have. I thought that my second blog entry should feature a real live celebrity. A tribute to a true hero. I realize that it is difficult to beat out the whole "animal eaten alive" theme we had going last time. But I'm trying. Are you ready for this? Here goes:


 
 
Oh yes. That's really Phil. Phil Robertson. In a photo on my blog. You may now pause for a moment to be totally impressed....
 
But....
 
he's not the hero I'm featuring.
 
You see, the man on the right is my cousin, Kenneth Bunn. This photo was taken when he and Phil served together as deacon and elder at White's Ferry Road Church of Christ in West Monroe. I wrote this tribute March 23, 2011:

 
My sisters and I were the always the "city" cousins. I find this perception to be hilarious - being that we were ALL as country as cornbread. But somewhere along the line they labeled me with that - and it stuck. My going to both college and seminary was kinda unusual. Probably only Susan - who went to pharmacy school and then back to get a teaching degree later - has logged more hours in higher education than I have. At least among the Bunn cousins.

But today I was reminded that any "success" I may have accomplished pales in comparison to the extraordinary life we celebrated.

Kenneth was one of the "big kids". Usually that crowd spent most holidays trying to get away from us - the "little kids". Except for Easter - when they were forced to hide Easter eggs for us to hunt - there was little mingling between the groups. Perhaps sitting together at a meal - posing beside each other in a picture - catching up on the details of life as adults at Christmas. Ironically, Facebook has provided the most interaction between us in our whole lives, and that is through his wife Starla. We swapped lo-cal recipes and exercise tips until recently we both unexpectedly faced extreme crisis.

Mine was the dissolution of my marriage. Hers was the dissolution of her husband's life.

She encouraged me as I went to regain custody of my children, even as she and Kenneth learned how to clean his trach tube...endured radiation...and made it through chemo. In one message, she told me that what they were going through was nothing compared to the agony I had to feel when I could not see my kids. I remember being so deeply touched by how seriously she took my pain. My pain of separation lasted for four days. Only the Lord knows how long she will endure the pain of her separation from Kenneth.

Kenneth died Sunday. After months of prayer requests - updates on Facebook which became more and more somber - the healing came. In a way that no one wanted, but the only way that was complete. I was so aware of Starla's faith. We mentioned the Lord in every conversation. I knew that Kenneth was active in church and a man of faith - but nothing - nothing could have prepared me for what I learned about him today.

His visitation last night was overwhelming. The line stretched out the door of the huge church and into the street. We finally cut around to go talk to my elderly uncle who has been battling cancer himself and was preparing to leave. As my dad visited and I kept my kids from swinging from the rafters - I had lots of time to watch Starla and the crowd. Hundreds of people...old, young, families, executive types, guys still in work shirts from the paper mill. We never made it over to visit with her. Opted instead for a trip to Chick-fil-a (a merciful break we awarded ourselves as a reward for keeping Matthew "semi-reverent" after over an hour and a half of standing around). Over our late dinner, we discussed the fact that the crowd would be smaller at the funeral. After all, people have to work.

We were wrong. The parking lot was full. The church was packed. For two hours I heard testimony about a man that I was proud to be related to. In quiet confidence and strength - he had been faithful to his family, his church, his job, his Savior. Man after man stood in tears talking about how Ken was slow, but never late. How he taught welding to the new guys with a precision and patience that was almost unbelievable. How his side hobby was brick laying - a very difficult skill that he mastered and demonstrated often. Everyone talked of things that he made them. How he was always there to help, even if not asked. He would just show up and quietly get to work...remodeling his brother-in-law's house...making a fish fryer or bar-be-que out of spare pieces of steel...preparing the Lord's Supper every Sunday morning - for over 18 years. His last Sunday to perform this task was the day he went to the hospital.

Friends stood to talk about how their relationship with Ken made them better husbands and better fathers. I watched the son of Ken's best friend break into tears as his daddy gave testimony from the pulpit that "my kids would not be who they are today without the influence of this man". They talked of accountability, Bible studies, and most of all - how Ken LIVED his faith - showed the gospel in action. I found myself wishing that my husband could have had a friend like my cousin Ken...

I realize that when I get to the other side - a pretty good introduction of myself will be that I am "Kenneth Bunn's cousin". He lived the gospel. He was faithful. He impacted thousands of lives in his quiet, easygoing way.

Another cousin leaned over as the family sat waiting for the huge crowd to file past. "Y'all sure won't get this many to come out for my funeral" she quipped. We quietly laughed.

No -not many people would have "that many come out" to celebrate a life. 53 years. Eternal significance. I am proud to be Kenneth Bunn's cousin. And I can't wait to get to know him better - when we can visit and catch up forever.

If you've come back to read this second entry of mine - you have thrilled me beyond measure. Thanks y'all.

(And, by the way - the fireplace you see at the end of every Duck Dynasty episode? Made especially for Phil Robertson by MY cousin, Ken Bunn. Not that I'm one to brag - but it is what it is, y'all.)

And the lights are going out on another day here in Pizza Hut Heights.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

We pulled into the driveway and oohed and aahed at the fluffy grey kittens that scampered out of the way. Both my kids jumped out to try to catch one - which was about as likely as catching a squirrel bare-handed.

We went inside and I started dinner.

(This phrase probably sounds very mundane - but the fact of the matter is - cooking dinner every night is the absolute bane of my existence. Or rather, it would be if I actually cooked dinner every night. The fact that I was preparing food purchased raw and/or frozen at the grocery store is something for me to be proud of. I know this doesn't do much for my Proverbs 31 Woman image - but we might as well start off on the right foot. No pretense.)

After just a few minutes - I heard Matthew holler "Look, Mama - a lost dog!" This phrase holds great promise for my kids in their eternal quest to add another animal to the menagerie that they proudly call "theirs".  When in fact, they are MINE. I have tried in vain to relenquish the animal ownership here in Pizza Hut Heights. However - every living thing within these walls is apparently instinctively drawn to me as the Mama. Child, canine, and feline. This should make me feel very honored - but since I can't even cook dinner on a consistent basis - I find it pitiful that these creatures are desperate enough to look to me.

I followed Matthew down the stairs, reassuring him that the dog was just out for a walk and was not lost at all. Grace followed (no doubt after checking her hair, mascara, and lip gloss and also snapping an Instagram photo so she could properly document the potential procurement of her new pet). We smiled over at a huge Dalmation, who was alternating between leaping ecstatically, ruffing a playful bark, and gleefully tossing a fluffy grey sock up into the........ Oh. Dear. God. NO!!!!!

I heard the kitten screaming at the same moment Matthew realized what was happening. I grabbed him and wheeled away from the sight that I could not even comprehend was happening just a few feet away. Matthew shrieked and sobbed as he choked on the vomit in his mouth. 

(I feel like I should stop and let you all know that although this is a very graphic beginning to a blog - I promise you this is definitely a departure from my normal writing style. In fact - this is my first recorded account of watching a small animal be eaten alive. The fact that this event occurred the very day I actually agreed with the Lord that I would start a blog just serves as a divinely appointed exciting start.

Or not.

Anyway, the fact that a cat dies in this story will be a hilarious irony to some of my oldest friends who remember the "summer of the cat graveyard at the BSU". I have no aspiration to be a Stephen King-type writer. If you have begged me to write, as many of you have - just bear with me. I promise there will be a point.

Maybe.)

I herded the kids up the stairs and into the house while bellowing for them to shut the door and NOT LOOK OUT AND DON'T YOU DARE DISOBEY ME OR I'LL BEAT BOTH OF YOU WHEN THIS IS ALL OVER. ("Above all, put on love", Sandy. Good job. Not.) I turned back to the Dalmation - who was looking at me with all the charm of a sixth grade boy who has just found something cool to show his buddy. Except I wasn't his buddy and I did not want to see the sight that my driveway had become. I screamed some tearful incoherent reprimand, and he loped off - tail wagging. 

The kitten took up a space in the driveway that was about three feet long by six inches wide. An impossibly long, skinny rectangle of carnage. I had grabbed my phone instinctively as I ran out the door, and now dialed Daddy's number. No answer. I turned away from the pitiful sight. This had to be cleaned up, and I knew I just couldn't do it. I dialed my friend to see if her husband could help me. As the phone started ringing - I glanced back in time to see the kitten crawling away - kind of. I will not describe this. Only tell you that I am glad my friend did not answer. The sound of me projectile vomiting is something I'd rather keep confidential.

At this moment - one of my finest, for sure - my neighbor drove up. He nearly died on the spot, probably certain he had come across a stabbing scene. Once he realized the carnage was a cat's and the vomit was mine - his caretaker persona took over.

"Jest git in that house. Keep them precious chirren inside away from them windows. Dear Gawd!! Oooooh - the poor little thing. Bless it's heart. I'm 'fraid I'ma have ta destroy it."

I refrained from pointing out that it was pretty much already a goner....just went on in the house to comfort my hysterical children. Matthew - hysterical because he had seen something incredibly traumatic for an almost nine-year-old to witness. Grace - hysterical simply because hysteria was in the air - and, being freshly thirteen - hysteria is her current specialty. I later found out that she hadn't actually seen much of what happened.

(Although seeing Matthew's agony over the situation was almost the worst thing about the whole thing - and she WAS holding down the fort in the kitchen comforting him while I was outside throwing up and bonding with the neighbor.)

Ten minutes later Matthew and I were pulling out of the driveway to go to Ruston Elementary Open House. Our neighbor was washing down the pavement with the water hose. (Yes, he gets a cake soon. Oh wait - maybe cake balls from House of Flowers. They come already cooked. In a box with a cute bow. Much better.) The twenty minutes of horror tore through the center of our ordinary day, dividing it into "before" and "after". Our hearts still pounded, and we all still had the slightly nauseated feeling you get after seeing something you wish you could erase.

But life doesn't erase. No rewinds. No do-overs, really. Oh - I know, I know - everybody gets another chance. The Lord is merciful. He can restore even horrible things. But they don't erase.

Yucky things - like seeing a horrible "act of nature" (as one of my colleagues called the kitten slaying. Hmm...creative.) Disappointing things - that make your stomach sink every time you revisit  "what might have been" in your thoughts. Terrifying things - the stiff smile of a physician as he enters the room with news you don't want to hear. Sorrowful things - the news that a friend has lost his mate through horrible circumstances. The shock and fear are physical. You can taste them in the back of your throat. The emotions linger and are brought to the surface at unexpected moments. Life doesn't erase. Until...

Matthew asked me at bedtime if we could pray for the dead kitten. Not pray ABOUT it - I tried that diversion. Pray FOR it. An interesting theological end to my day. I missed the seminary class for this. "Emotional Support For Children Who See Stephen King Novels Acted Out Before Their Very Eyes In The Driveway". I just couldn't refuse his tearful request to pray. And out of my desire to comfort my little boy - I found comfort in talking to my Father.

"If you see a sparrow that falls, Lord -we know you saw the kitten that...umm...fell. I know you are in control of everything that happens. Help us to turn to you when we don't understand. When we are afraid. When we've seen and heard things that we didn't want to. (Enter tears. Slow...hot...tears of a child. A forty-seven year old child who is the Mama to children who have seen and experienced more in their short lives than she has in all of hers.) We know that You promised to make a new heaven and a new earth - and we look forward to that with all our hearts..."

I don't remember how I ended it all. But I DO know how my precious Lord will end it all.

"No more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever."

Erased.

And the lights went out on another day here in Pizza Hut Heights.