The Black Club

Animal shelters testify that black dogs are the last to get adopted. This makes no sense, particularly if you know my buddy black-Jack. His cousin-dog, Sydney, is black, too, as are three other neighborhood dogs. As a matter of fact, these five black dogs appear so often on the beach they have a name: The Black Club.

Although a handful of other dogs visit the beach every day, none of them have wanted to be in the club. The dogs try to have a daily meeting, but because they don’t wear watches, some of the members are late or even no-shows. Jack and Sydney, however, are always present and accounted for.

These two love their club and call the meetings to order by rolling in the sand. When they come up for air, both have sand in their eyes, up their noses and coating their coats. As they move through the agenda, dune-romping comes next. They’ll chase each other up and down but always take time for a second roll, this one in the tall grasses. Today Jack rolled so enthusiastically he tumbled down the dune by mistake, like a sea lion sliding down wet rocks.

Although the Black Club allows only friendly canine members to join, they can appear threatening as they race up to greet beach walkers. But all club members are cooperative with humans, and they practice the art of tail-wagging to prove they’re not up to any mischief.

Hole-digging is always on the agenda, as is swimming. Once in a while a member will make a motion to chew on driftwood, but several have been brought up for disciplinary measures after eating dead fish washed up by the waves.

Black Club dogs always feel free to produce piles at the beach, which is when their masters move in with plastic bags to scoop up these productions and take them home.

Refreshments are faithfully served at club meetings with an open bar and an all-you-can-drink philosophy.  “Creek Cocktails” are the steady favorite, although “Lake Licks” are also popular. Midway through meetings, a recess is called and naps are encouraged, although sleeping needs to remain light in case additional club members arrive and need welcoming. The preferred greeting is always nose-to-rear. This afternoon a canine three-some played “Ring Around the Rosie” in this well-loved nose-to-rear formation, enjoying each others best ends during the exercise.

After club meetings adjourn, members like to hang out and fellowship together, keeping their noses flared, should picnickers be nearby. If the need arises, they’re available to help clean out cooler contents.

Black Club members love being dogs. They never strive to be what they’re not, and they make the most of the abilities God gave them. Enthusiasm for life is one of their best qualities, and they lavish it on humans and other animals alike. At the end of a busy day, they fall asleep dreaming of club meetings at the beach and wiggle with delight even when unconscious. All members are especially looking forward to the upcoming dog-days of summer.

“Pay careful attention to your own work, for then you will get the satisfaction of a job well done, and you won’t need to compare yourself to anyone else.” (Galatians 6:4)

Help for a Widow

When it came time to pack for my trip to England several weeks ago, I didn’t know how I would do. Feeling depleted after a winter of missing Nate, I hoped I was strong enough to be helpful with the twins and Nicholas. Flying so far from home without Nate reminding me of all the details was unnerving. After all, he was the one who had always kept the tickets safe, organized the schedule, chose a good departure time, did the driving, hauled the bags.

As I wrestled my two 49 pound suitcases down the stairs before dawn on the morning I left the cottage, I was muttering about being a fool for trying to travel abroad by myself. Case in point, I nearly left the house without my passport, because it hadn’t crossed my mind to dig it out of the file cabinet. When I went to get it, I wondered if it had expired. Such shabby planning indicated I was out of my depth.

Katy had suggested, as the trip was being planned, that I stay three doors down at their pastor’s home in order to be assured of a good night’s sleep, since the Nyman nights would be lively with two newborns. It sounded wise, but I worried about being a burden to a family I hadn’t met. “You’ll love them,” Katy assured me. “They really want to help you.”

When I met Esther, she greeted me warmly, genuinely enthusiastic about my arrival. She showed me to the back of the house where I had my own room with an empty wardrobe and a private bathroom. She handed me a house key and showed me how to work the lock. On the bedroom door was a cheery greeting made by six year old Naomi that said, “Welcome to our home Aunty Margaret!”

Esther’s first suggestion was that I take a nap to fight the overpowering fatigue of jet lag, and I gratefully gave in to the comfort of their guest bed. As the 14 days passed, we fell into an easy rhythm, staggering our showers and making sure we didn’t bump into each other getting ready for the day. As the children left for school, I walked to Hans and Katy’s house down the block.

Each new morning I’d ask Katy, “How was your night with the babies?”

She’d detail their literal ups and downs and then ask, “How was your night?”

I could always answer, “I slept like a stone.” Thanks to the pastor’s family and their welcoming hospitality toward a needy widow, I could face each day with renewed energy.

Something else happened while I stayed with the pastor’s family. Esther was a hostess of excellence, replenishing the bed with fresh sheets and the bathroom with clean towels more than once during my stay. Everything sparkled with cleanliness, and for the first time since Nate died, I felt eager to attack my Michigan cottage when I got back. This just might be a sign of healing, a blessing to contemplate.

I also noticed how much Esther got done, entertaining groups in the evening, babysitting some mornings, serving as lunch lady at her children’s school every mid-day and having women friends visit. She even did my laundry, hanging everything out to dry in the sunshine of a British spring. It isn’t easy being a pastor’s wife with its extra responsibilities, but Esther keeps all her plates spinning while wearing a broad smile.

It was our delight to take the three babies to church on Sunday where we got to hear Keith preach. I was challenged by his message and energized by the lively worship of a congregation filled with young families. And when my laptop crashed later that day, Keith loaned me one of his, eventually gifting me with it on a permanent basis.

By the end of my stay, Esther, Keith and I were no longer strangers, and I look forward to furthering our friendships when I next return to England. My prayer is that God will shower them with blessings for their willingness to help a widow in need.

When God’s people are in need, be ready to help them. Always be eager to practice hospitality.” (Romans 12:13)

Good Hope

In my quest to fly home from England yesterday, it was all bad news. Traveling on a Buddy Pass given to me by Nelson’s friend Kevin, I’d flown to England on a flawless connection. Kevin had assured me I’d get on, and I had.

When Hans and I pulled up to the Manchester airport early Tuesday, we hugged our goodbyes, and I walked into the airport with confidence. There had been 20 open seats on my flight, one of two daily Delta departures for the States. The queue was long, and as I stood with literally hundreds who were ticketed for the same plane, my nerves came awake.

The friendly agent saw my Buddy Pass status and said, “Oooo, ma’m. It doesn’t look good for you today. The flight is overbooked, and you’re at the bottom of the standby list. We won’t check your bag, because more than likely you won’t fly today.”

I’d stayed up till 1:15 am packing and had disrupted Hans’ work day needing a lift to the airport. To call an hour after he’d dropped me with a request that he return was unacceptable. And would it be any better tomorrow?

“Take your bags and find a place to wait,” the agent said. “Come back in an hour, and we’ll let you know.”

“Is there any hope?” I said.

“It’s always best to hope,” he said.

I wheeled my bags across the airport in search of an empty chair and plopped down next to a young woman who had an even bigger luggage pile than I did. The tags on her suitcases matched mine, iridescent green with block letters: DELTA STANDBY TAG. We were both after the same empty seat on the same crowded flight. With a friendly smile she said, “None of us could have predicted British Airways would go on strike this morning…”

So that was where the seats had gone. Feeling powerless, I sat and stared at the passing masses, each one anxious to fly away to someplace. I prayed for those walking by and also reminded God he’d promised to go ahead of me and prepare my way, too.

An hour later, I took my bags back to the counter, “Mr. Hope” was gone, but the woman in his place had surprising news. “Put your suitcase on the scale. You’re listed on the flight.” I didn’t even ask.

As I rushed through the airport to find my gate, loudspeakers were urging passengers to heed “the final call” for boarding. My last stop was to receive a seat assignment, worrying me I could still be plucked from the passenger list. But the agent handed me my boarding pass with a smile. “Here’s your seat now, love.”

I didn’t look at it but lined up behind the last boarders, heeding earlier counsel: “It’s always best to hope.”

With six minutes until push-back, the staff was urging people to find their places quickly. The stewardess at the door glanced at my boarding pass and said, “Oh. You’re right here.”

First row.   First seat.   First class!

Mine was the last empty seat on the plane, and as I sat down, anxiety melted. The cross-Atlantic flight was the most pampered ride of a lifetime with a bed-sized pillow, a down blanket, gourmet meals chosen from a menu, my own TV and a snap-shut travel bag filled with goodies. The other woman had made it on, too, neither of us knowing how it had happened. I have a hunch, though.

Kevin’s email yesterday (giving me the Buddy Pass data) had ended with this line: “We’ll be praying for you to get on, and to get a seat in first class.”

When there had been no way, God had made a way, proving the ticket agent was right: it’s always best to hope.

”Many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first.” (Matthew 19:30)