Open Letters to my Grandchildren # 1: A Different Kind of Substance Abuse

It's everywhere -- talk of substance abuse. Which makes sense since addiction is a serious problem.

But that's not what I want to talk to you about right now. Today, I want to talk about the prodigal son's particular kind of, "substance abuse."

The prodigal son, as you probably know, pestered his dad to give him his inheritance early. He didn't want to wait for his father to die to get what he figured was coming to him.

Once you know the story, you might think it would have been a good idea for his dad to tell him, "No way!" But that's not what happened.

What did happen, as the Bible tells us, was that the son went off and had himself one big long party. (If you don't know what happened next, check it out in the Gospel of Luke, chapter 15, verses 11-32.)

What interests me, and what I want to talk to you about today, is the way the son's actions are described. There's actually not a whole lot of description, although it's easy to imagine what he was up to. What we do find, is this phrase:

he "wasted his substance with riotous living."

(This is from the King James Version of the Bible -- other translations word things a little differently, and may be easier for you to understand, but this is the phrase I'd like you to remember - always.)

He wasted:

Prodigal didn't use what he'd been given the way he should have. He more or less threw it away. He got no real value out of it. That's often the case when something comes too easily. A person often values what they work for more than what they're given.

his substance:

Now this is the phrase that interests me the most, and the one I am asking you to really, really, think about. At first glance, it's easy to think this just means he wasted the inheritance his father had given him. But it goes far beyond that.

Substance, if you look it up, is described as what a thing is made up of. So, yes, the son wasted the substance of what he'd been given -- whatever money and other valuables he had. But there's more to it. Because he also wasted his personal substance.

He threw away his personal qualities, the gifts God gave him. He trashed his own character, his honour and integrity...like it was worthless. Except, it wasn't. It was more valuable than anything else he had.

with riotous living.

This doesn't need a lot of explanation. He was having himself good time. At least, he thought he was. (He also thought he was popular, until his circumstances changed and everyone disappeared.) I wonder how many regrets he had while he was eating pig slop and living in poverty. 

You're smart enough to draw your own conclusions on whether this so-called good time was worth the cost. Because everything has a price.

And finally, why all of this matters to each of you.

As you make your way through life you will have to make a lot of decisions. They won't all involve money and material values, but almost everything you do will involve your personal value. Who you are. How you treat others. How you treat yourself -- your mind and your body. 

Don't waste your substance. 

Open Letters to my Grandchildren # 2: Purpose in Your Heart

One of my favourite stories from the Old Testament is about Daniel.

Not the story everyone talks about though, which is Daniel in the Lion's Den. That's also a great reminder of how God rewards faith, but the story I like the best happened before then. At the beginning.

Daniel was a fine young man. Everyone knew it. And that's one of the reasons he was captured and taken away from his home in Judah to a place called Bablyon. Daniel and the other captives were chosen for their good qualities, and were expected to adapt to the new world they found themselves in and to add value to it. 

So there they were, being treated well and provided with good things, including great food. Except, the foods were not allowed to them. Daniel, and the other captives, followed strict laws regarding the kinds of foods they could eat, as well as the ways it was prepared.

But there they were, looking at tables loaded with food that smelled great. And they were all hungry. What were they supposed to do? Insult the king, who'd provided it? Starve? It was a sticky situation to say the least.

So what happened? Daniel Chapter 1 verse 8 tells us:

"But Daniel purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself with the portion of the king's meat, nor with the wine which he drank..."

As a result of Daniel taking a stand to do what he knew was right, he and the others from Judah were given a completely different diet, one that you wouldn't expect could promote health and strength. Even so, they thrived on it and were stronger and more fit than those who were eating the other stuff.

What I like the most about this story is WHY it happened. It would have been so easy for Daniel to give in, to make excuses, to shrug his shoulders and decide he had no choice but to go along. But Daniel didn't do any of those things because he had purposed in his heart! 

Daniel already knew what he was going to do before he was faced with the temptation. He didn't make up his mind when he sat at the table, hungry and facing platters of delicious smelling food. His heart had chosen the right thing ahead of time.

But why? Why did Daniel purpose this in his heart? So that he would not defile himself! That's a pretty strong statement. He might easily have told himself that eating some forbidden food wasn't a big deal. It wasn't like stealing or killing or any of the really wrong things, right?

Except, Daniel understood that it mattered. That he needed to do what was right in small matters as well as large. And if you read through the Book of Daniel in the Bible, you will see how God blessed him.

Every day, as we go through life, we are faced with choices. Often, we are tempted to do the wrong thing, and when those things seem small, we may tell ourselves they don't matter. But that is not true -- every right choice brings a reward.

And it is easier, so  much easier, for us to make the right choice if we already know what that choice will be, if we have determined beforehand to do what we know we should do, no matter how tempted we may be. 

If we have purposed in our hearts.

Open Letter to My Family: Never Alone

Archived from a later date.

From the earliest days of Covid, I expect most of us encountered talk of death, and when conversations took this turn, there was inevitably discussion of what the final days and hours may be like for those struck down by this virus. And one word that rose from every description was this: 

"ALONE"

What a sad thing to imagine. A loved one, unwell, struggling to breathe, with no family member or even friend at their side. No hand to hold, no chance for a last "I love you." A solitary passing. It is a sad image to envision.

But I want you to know this: Whenever, and however I may leave this world, that word will not apply to me.

I know this because I am never alone. My Lord and Saviour is with me, just as He promised. Just as He has been from the first moment I placed my faith in Him.

"lo, I am with you always, even until the end of the world." 

- Matthew 28:20b

And because of that, I will not die alone, regardless of whatever circumstances may surround my final moments on this earth. The Lord my God will be with me. His grace and comfort, peace and joy will be the companions of the last beat of my heart.

I know and am certain of this, not because my faith is remarkably strong, or for any other reason connected to me. I know it because God is faithful. I have failed Him many times but He has never failed me. I have seen evidence of His faithfulness time and time again throughout my life. I trust that. I trust Him. I trust His Word. And His Word promises...

"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." Hebrews 13:5b 

Remember this. Hold it in your heart until we meet again.

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I am tired, I am weak, I am worn

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on, to the light

Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.

 

When my way grows drear

Precious Lord, linger near

When my light is almost gone

Hear my cry, hear my call

Hold my hand, lest I fall

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.

When the darkness appears

And the night draws near

And the day is past and gone

At the river I stand

Guide my feet, hold my hand

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I am tired, I am weak, I am worn

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on, to the light

Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.

  This post was backdated for filing purposes.

Cat Scratch Fever!

Yes, I said cat scratch fever. It's the only explanation I can think of to account for the decision we've made.

That being - to keep all of the cats. Yes, Mom Lily, and all four of her babies.

"We'll be known as the crazy cat people,"I told Brent.

"So?" he said, shrugging.

We'd gone over and over the subject. At any given moment you could find us firmly determined to keep one, two, four, none ... it had gone back and forth and around and around. In the end, it was Thragg who decided things for us.

Thragg is the firstborn, a black male with a tiny white tuft at his throat and a single white hair protruding from the middle of his back. He'd also become the runt of the litter after growing at a normal rate for the first five weeks. As he fell behind, the others tended to crowd him out -- he clearly wasn't getting his share of milk, and then Mommy decided that it was time to begin weaning.

To top that off, Thragg took sick, not once but a couple of times. By week six and in spite of our interventions, he was thin and fragile, while the others bounded about, their chubby bodies landing on him as they played. He headed for cover, seeking us out, wanting to be held and protected. And all the while, he got thinner and thinner. His eyes lost expression, his walk became a listless stagger.

It was quite apparent to us that we were losing the little guy. A milk substitute, complete with a pet nurser didn't tempt him. Private sessions we'd been orchestrating with Mommy were no longer working -- she refused to oblige. For several days we rose each morning suffused in dread. Each time, he made his way weakly along and sat at our feet in the most pathetic manner.

As our worry grew, we decided to take him to the local SPCA (from whence Lily had come) for a prognosis. Dreading the worst, Brent could hardly believe his ears when Cindy checked him over and declared, "Nothing wrong with this kitten! He's just a runt." She offered instructions on making gruel for him and showed us how to use the pet nurser more effectively.

It was a turning point. He began to pick up right away, and now, as he nears eight weeks, the tiny creature is rounding out and making gains steadily. Still less than half the size of two of his siblings (as you can see in the photo) the spark is back in his eyes and he's even engaging in a little play.

You'd almost think this would be reason to keep him - maybe only him - but not the others. You'd be wrong. Believing we were losing Thragg showed us how precious each of these tiny creatures really are to us. We love each and every one of them.

And this is why they're staying.

That, and cat scratch fever.

Miss Lily Takes Over

Well, it's official. The cat stays.

I guess I knew, probably from the first second I picked her up and she rubbed her face against my cheek, that this wasn't going to be a short-term "foster care" deal. She was already sizing me up, figuring out my weaknesses, measuring my resolve... No wonder her little cat smile was so serene.

The big question that still remains is: what about the kittens. Brent (who is entirely smitten with Miss Lily) made a crack last week about keeping all of them. At least, I think it was a crack. There was a kind of weak laugh that went along with it but now that I think back, he couldn't quite meet my eye.

The babies, by the way, are hidden away at the moment. When they were two days old, I discovered that one of them was missing from the box we'd lined with blankets for the newborns and Mom. Searching frantically, I was relieved to be guided by its pathetic mewing and finally found it in a large drawer in the centre of our couch.

I took the poor thing back to Lily and gave her a stern talking-to about keeping the babies together etc. Half an hour later, she'd transferred a second kitten there. Another rescue, another lecture.

Brent took time out from his amusement to suggest that she might know what she was about and maybe I should let her do as she liked. So, I lined the drawer with a soft towel and backed off.

In short order, she'd moved her little brood to the drawer, where they remain in spite of the fact that their incredibly rapid growth has resulted in rather cramped living quarters. We are now allowed to see them and even touch them, but I've learned to leave the living arrangements up to Lily, and have not attempted to move them again. We have, however, created no less than four alternate places for them, for when she decides it's time.

As cute as the kittens are, and as likely as it is that they won't all be leaving here for new homes, it's really Lily who's won our hearts. Both affectionate and peculiar, she fits right in.

One of the odd things about her! I first noticed that she was, uh, not exactly sure-footed, the first time she stumbled all over my desk. Further evidence that she lacks the usual grace and balance found in cats has presented itself to us on a daily basis. She trips and slips and has even bonked her head on furniture.

But her lack of agility is only the beginning. However, I shall save more for another day. Perhaps with a picture of her with her babies.

For now, I have to go. There's a cat on my keyboard.

The Arrival

One week ago, on Saturday, March 24th, I received a call from our local SPCA -- just days after registering for their fostering program.

"Can you foster a pregnant cat? She's ready to give birth in the next few days."

I promised to drop down and meet the mom-to-be. The idea of frollicking kittens appeals to me. Still, I know that there's a high risk involved. What if one of the kittens is just too cute to give back? We're not ready for another cat -- not long term. In fact, we firmly decided, after the death of our much-loved Tom (full name Thomas Uriah Sherrard) nearly two years ago that we wouldn't have another pet.

At the shelter, I meet a very small and very young female. She's been brought in as a stray and it sickens me to think that someone decided the last stage of pregnancy was the time to send her wandering alone on the streets. When the cage door is opened she comes right to me and allows me to pick her up. (Her fur is incredibly soft -- reminiscent of Tom, who charmed the ladies with his velvety coat.) She rubs my face with hers and purrs.

Half an hour later we arrived home and, after hiding and being coaxed out a few times she seems to settle in okay. Since she's come sans-name, Brent calls her Lily, short for Tiger Lily, in honour of her beautiful tiger-like markings. (This may make you think she's orange, but she's actually dark with some brown and white.)

Lily proves to be quite friendly and spends a lot of time cuddling. In fact, the next day she's laying across me, purring while I stroke her when an odd movement in her midsection catches my attention. I watch, certain I must be mistaken, but sure enough it happens again. She's having contractions. On me.

"Do you know that you're in labour?" I ask her. "Wouldn't you prefer some privacy?"

Apparently not. An hour or so later I shift her into a cat bed, which Brent has placed beside me on the couch. Lily insists on leaning out of it and putting her head on my knee. It's not until the first kitten begins to emerge that she pulls away, giving my stroking hand a gentle bite for my trouble.

Two hours later there are four kittens, wet, scrawny and thoroughly pathetic looking. Brent and I assure Lily that they're absolutely beautiful. One is entirely black, one has its mother's colours and two are white with some dark blotches.

From zero to five in twenty-four hours!

I think to myself that it should be interesting.

Welcome Friends

The wind is howling outside my window -- a south-east wind that's been blowing since yesterday. There's still plenty of snow on the ground, but it's the end of March -- and the promise of spring makes me indifferent to that. Besides, I like snow, although I admit in its current state it reminds me of a rose well past its bloom -- with brightness gone and shrivelling around the darkening edges.

I should be working on a story, or doing something constructive ... or, at the very least, performing some mundane task. (A relatively simple but accurate layout of my priorities!) Instead, I've decided to come here and make a little nest, a home for my thoughts, a place to record what matters. To me.

For today, this seems enough. A beginning - a toe dipped in the water. A journey with destinations unknown.

I'm very glad you've stopped by.

Valerie