Missy & Me. I loved the house my parents bought because it looked like a country barn.
I was 14 years old when my parents moved our family away from Bay Village, Ohio, to settle in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Unbeknownst to me, my parents secretly devised a plan to purchase my first horse for me when I was 14 years old. The horse was to help me transition when my father’s work moved my family away from Bay Village, Ohio, to Indiana, where we settled in the city of Fort Wayne. At the time, I was grieving the loss of Bay Village, a city I still love and hold dear, and my departure from a growing career as an actress.
For 53 years, I remained under the impression that I stumbled upon Missy, or Miss Hard Rock 27, by accident, until I year ago when I heard the full story. The wonder of having my very own horse, indeed erased my grief and fed my fanatical horse crazy love. Most importantly, this beautiful horse helped me through some pretty difficult years. She was a friend I could lean upon, balm for my hurting soul.
I first met Missy on a sunny, but cold winter morning in early December. She was a stunning bay, appendix Quarter Horse. A two-year-old, meaning she was still a baby and growing. She had suffered a life-threatening bout of shipping fever (a potentially life-threatening infection) during her transportation from Amarillo, Texas to Indiana, and had suffered a bad injury to her right back pastern. Her countenance was sad, detached and she was horribly neglected. I approached her gently, fearless, drawn to her delicious horsey smell. And as I petted her neck cooing quietly, she brought her nose to my side.
I was shocked and thrilled when the next day my mother agreed to drive me over to see Missy again. This time I was allowed two hours with her.
Nickle size burs had tangled the strands to Missy’s mane, into tight masses that gathered along the growth line running along the top of her neck. Instead of taking a suggestion that I shave her mane off, I removed my gloves and patiently untangled every single bur from her mane revealing long silky strands of thick, black hair. Her heavy winter coat was also thick, with her ears particularly fluffy and I nicknamed her “fluffy ears.”
When my father, who is seriously allergic to anything with fur, said he would buy Missy for me, I was shocked and absolutely ecstatic. Dad paid $200.00 for her (at least that’s what I was told)! A week later, my family traveled back to Bay Village to celebrate Christmas. I carried with me a photo of my new horse. When we returned to Indiana, we moved Missy into a small stable, where my adventures with her and a used saddle and bridle began.
Missy & Me in her stall. My friend Kim is in the background. We were the only two boarders.
I was told that Missy was “green broke.” I was “green broke” too. I didn’t have much experience working around or with horses. However, my book knowledge on horse care really came in handy. I was even able to detect Missy’s first colic, a serious condition usually caused by an obstruction in a horse’s gut.
Because Missy and I quickly bonded, she allowed me to saddle her up and accepted the bit, but once I mounted—that became a different story. Skills I had developed while studying ballet in Cleveland, Ohio, sculpted my natural balance. Still, I rode under saddle, stiff and unsure, because I didn’t know how to ride and because Missy had the tendency to do the unexpected. Like the time, she reared up, hit my forehead with the poll of her head, and knocked me out. When I came to, Missy hadn’t moved, and I was still sitting in the saddle.
Several months later, I moved Missy onto a sweet little barn, nestled on the property of a wonderful family. The new barn had a good-sized pasture where Missy could graze, and I could ride. Adjacent to the barn was a wood that we could explore, in addition there were fields and plenty of dirt roads at our disposal.
One day in the early spring, while Missy was grazing, I vaulted onto her bare back. Immediately she broke into a canter and promptly, bucked me off. I vaulted back on. She sent me flying. This repetitive process continued for several days. Then, like a miracle, one afternoon I rode her as she cantered the diameters of the pasture. She ran until she was spent. What’s more I didn’t fall off! It was an exhilarating sensation and great sense of accomplishment. I spent the next hour and a half sitting on her under the Indiana sun while she grazed.
Riding bareback was, for most of my life my favorite!
As the summer months progressed, I spent many long afternoons simply sitting on Missy, surrounded by a beautiful field growing corn. When the sun made me drowsy, I turned around and sat backward so I could lower my head to rest on her ample rump. There were occasions when I fell asleep. Missy and I had developed that kind of relaxed trust!
By all accounts, Missy, was my first riding instructor because of the long hours I spent sitting on her bareback. I began to pay attention to how my body responded to every movement she made. A shift of her weight also adjusted my weight. Every step she took in turn moved my legs and hips and seat (an equestrian term for bottom). I began to walk with Missy’s steps, which smoothed out the ride into a rhythmic harmony between us. Once established, the skill easily transitioned into her other gaits. Because of the close contact, bareback became was my favorite way to ride.
At my parents’ house giving one of my brothers a ride.
It wasn’t long until my adventurous side prompted me to saddle up so Missy and I could explore the woods, roadways, and fields around us. We spent our autumn’s riding through harvested fields. We began to have close encounters with wildlife. Such as the late afternoon we entered a field and Missy suddenly stopped moving. Pinning her ears attentively forward, she stared across to the other side where a stag and doe stood at attention watching us as two baby fawns frolicked carefree. That’s when I discovered that wildlife allows people to draw closer when they’re riding a horse.
I often rode Missy over to my house! And I swear if I had let her, she would have walked right through the front door. Twice while she and I were riding along a road, someone stopped me and asked if I would sell her. “Absolutely not!” One man replied, “Well there’s always a price.” I firmly countered, “Not for this horse.”
Standing in front of the woods where I loved to ride after a winter snowstorm.
My favorite memories with Missy, were the rides that we took in the woods after a heavy snowfall. On such occasions I drove to the barn to saddle her up, before the snow could be disturbed. We entered the woods at a walk, into the folds of an enchanted winter wonderland. It was like walking through the wardrobe in Narnia. The canopy of branches was encased in ice. Everything in sight was covered with heavy snow. The bitter temperature enhanced the experience. The only sounds were of Missy’s hooves crunching against the frozen ground and her occasional snort. In silence, together, we drank in the tranquility. These rides were gifts, unique to that stage in my life. I’ve never experienced anything like them since.
For twelve years, Missy and I shared many carefree ventures in the vast playland that was richly accessible to us in the 1970’s. Sadly, just a few months ago (fall 2024), I revisited that place and discovered that all of the land has been developed into housing additions. The barn and the woods are now gone and the dirt roads rerouted and paved.
In 1977, I married my husband, Jeff. We moved Missy to a barn closer to our new house. I was busy working at a department store during the weekdays and often rehearsing or performing in a theatrical production at night. Jeff was finishing his degree in Business Administration and studying for the CPA exam. And then, our world took an unexpected turn; I became pregnant.
My favorite Photo of Missy in the pasture where I learned to ride.
Immediately I fell in love with the tiny being growing inside of me. Suddenly, all of my goals and ambitions for the future now included motherhood. Shortly after my son Christopher was born, Jeff and I could no longer afford the luxury of having a horse. I had to sell Missy and passed her on to a young girl who mirrored my younger self and needed a horse to show. However, I deeply grieved her loss and vowed to never sell a horse again! I never did!
Chris was fourteen months old when Jeff and I moved from Fort Wayne to the city of Indianapolis. One of the first things I did after we set up our home was to find a stable where I could ride and take lessons. At least I would be around horses, but it wasn’t the same. I needed the companionship of a horse in my life that I could call my own. It would be about five years before my next companion came my way.
I have learned through my journey in life, that the greatest gifts come to us in the simplest forms and unfold when you least expect them… Louisa Cambridge
My dog Daisy after a Colleyville snowstorm
There’s a “tucked in” sensation, a “coziness” that rests upon a house when you wake up in the morning and discover that Old Man Winter has covered your neighborhood in ice and snow. This was one of those mornings. As I peeked through the shutters on my front windows, I saw that indeed, a very light sprinkling of snow had fallen the night before. And as I drank my morning coffee to begin my day, I could hear sleet falling against the skylight above my head.
My family’s house in Berea in 1961
I first time I became aware of this “tucked-in” sensation was in the early 1960’s, when I was a small child living in Ohio. We were rooted in a lovely equestrian community in the city of Berea, which is next to the “snow-belt” region on the western side of Cleveland. Throughout my childhood, the first snowfall routinely fell in the month of November, a week or two before Thanksgiving. This wonderous event not only marked the transformation of autumn into winter, but it also rang in the beginning of the holiday season.
My Grandparents house in Bay Village in the early 1960’s
My grandparents lived eleven miles away in a town that stretched along the shorelines of Lake Erie, called Bay Village. Every year my grandparents hosted our family festivities, which included a lovely, sit-down meal for both Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.
The holidays were the only occasion that Grandma asked us to enter the house through the front entryway. This extra touch of formality seemed to jump start the evening’s festivities. In the evening of Christmas day, before I went inside, I took a moment to pause and soak up the serene glow of the colorful Christmas lights shining brilliantly subdued under a thick layer of snow.
A Berea snowfall when I was five. My mother made the snow people.
In the 1960’s, winters in Cleveland were often laden with heavy snowfalls. There were occasions when the wind blew huge snowdrifts against our windows and doors. These drifts not only blocked our ability to see outside but rendered us captive indoors. To resolve this problem, my mother dressed me in my snow ware and sent me outside through the milk shoot, normally used by the milkman (we still had milk delivered to the house back then). My job, and I took it to heart, was to shovel away the drifts blocking our view and freedom.
It was particularly exciting when a blizzard blew in during the holiday season, especially when I was in school. The classroom became increasingly distracted and restless as the snow collected outside. If it continued to accumulate, we began to anticipate the announcement over the intercom telling us that school was released. A tremendous sensation of freedom like wind in the sails, almost lifted me from the ground when I stepped outside.
Just before I turned eleven, my parents moved into a house in Bay Village that was just one street over from my Grandparents’ house. There, I attended Bay Middle School. Every year I had at least one subject in a classroom where I could see Bay’s outdoor ice-skating rink across the street. We had a local woman, Karen Kresge who performed with the touring Ice Capades. Sometimes she practiced on that rink. I watched her captivated by her grace and skill.
Our house on Oakmoor Dr. in Bay Village. Sadly, after we moved away, it burned down.
Since Bay Village sat along the shorelines of Lake Erie, we were particularly susceptible to the “lake front” weather systems that sometimes sent blizzardly, winter snowfalls our way. By now my fellow middle schoolers and I were well seasoned to the cause and affects regarding blizzards and school closing. When the snow began to fall in a blinding flurry, our attention turned away the lesson at hand, to focus on what was happening outside.
One of my teachers, in a feeble attempt to regain control, allowed us a few minutes to gather at the windows so we could “get the snow out of our systems.” Instead, we began to anticipate the announcement that would release us for the day. After the announcement came, we flocked to our lockers, where I donned my winter apparel, slung my backpack over my shoulder and picked up my violin case. Leaving the warmth and shelter of the school, I stepped straightway into the bitter cold where the landscape was covered in ice and a carpet of white.
Briskly walking across the schoolyard under a blinding flurry, I did my best to dodge flying snowballs and quickened my pace to cross the street to the sidewalks running along Wolf Road. The sky was heavy with thick snow clouds that cast the land in greyscale. I absorbed my surroundings, relishing the cold, walking home to my house on Oakmoor Drive. I was older now, so instead of playing outside I cuddled up inside embraced by warmth, quietly reading, or watching “Dark Shadows“on TV.
One night after dinner, I donned my winter coat and snow boots and went outside to walk to my grandmother’s house. It had snowed all day and the schools were closed. As I stepped into our front yard I literally gasped! A breathtaking carpet of deep snow covered the entire neighborhood. What’s more, the snow was completely unblemished! Snowplows had not made their way down the street. Nothing had disturbed the quietude of white. The snow’s radiance twinkled like tiny diamonds or fairy dust, under the streetlamps. Instantly I realized that I was witnessing something purely majestic. For several minutes, I tried my very best to absorb the sights and sensations I was experiencing, imprinting both to my memory.
Now, in the thirty-plus years that I have lived in Texas, significant snowfalls are far and few between. One of the most memorable took place in Colleyville on a Christmas Eve, the night that Jeff and I host our family’s gathering. Back then, we took everyone out to eat prior to opening presents at home. However, on this particular eve, a Cleveland-like snowstorm, dropped large, fluffy flakes in a flurry of snow that fell like a blinding sheet. The inches were accumulating fast! One-by-one, restaurants around us closed—all except I-Hop.
This was the view from our back porch, before our family arrived for Christmas Eve.
Following Jeff’s gallant lead, the family caravanned over to I-Hop. The children (grandchildren) were so excited and entranced by the snow, that it took a great deal of persuasion to get them inside the restaurant to eat. The magical snowfall had significantly elevated our joy and excitement. After dinner when we returned to the house, I was struck by the unblemished snow that covered our land in white, particularly in the pastures. I asked the family to gather with me on the back porch, so they could take in the rare and beautiful sight. “This is exactly what my childhood was like,” I told them, yearning for them to experience the same wonderment I was blessed with growing up.
Aldon after his call this morning.
And then… this morning as I was working on this story, quite unexpectedly, my grandson Aldon called me from his house in Mississippi. He was unable to contain his excitement because he too woke up to discover his neighborhood covered in snow. Snow is a novelty in his region because of the warmer temperatures and high humidity levels coming off the Gulf of Mexico. But today his city is experiencing a record forecast of 100% heavy snow and it’s still falling!
Two hours later, my son, Andy, Aldon’s dad called. He too is excited about the snow and exclaims, “it’s still falling!” The snow has brought the inner child out of him.
Two hours later, right after Andy called me.
As the day progressed, I couldn’t help but wonder; did Aldon sensed that “tucked-in” sensation when he woke up this morning? Later in the evening he called me. “I’ve never seen so many people in our neighborhood outside at one time!” He exclaimed “Everyone was outdoors.” I listened to him elaborate about his day and then I asked him if he sensed that “tucked-in” sensation when he woke up. “Do you know what Abi (Ah-bee),” he said, “I actually did!”
One evening back in 1999, I was leading my horse, Roo back to his stall from the crossties where I had just finished grooming him, when my son Andy walked into the barn.
“Hey mom,” He called, “I thought I would find you here.”
We struck up a conversation.
Throughout his childhood, I would sit at the foot of this boy’s bed every single night, rubbing his feet, while he told me about his day. Now that he’s too big for me to tuck him in, Andy still seeks me out, sitting at the end of my bed and we’ll talk for at least a half hour.
After securing Roo in his stall, I turned toward my son. He wrapped his strong arm around my shoulder, my arm encircled his waist. Gosh he’s getting big; I thought noting how he towered over me. Together we left the barn and made the trek through the grass back to the house stopping on the drive next to the garage.
“Yeah,” Andy said when we reached the drive, “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
I hugged him holding him tight, enjoying the covering of his love.
Andy bounced a basketball as we stared up at the sky. He was filled with the wonder only the universe can inspire and shared his thoughts with me, and in that moment, I felt so close to him, like the luckiest Mom in the world.
After going inside, we parted ways. I began my nighttime ritual preparing for bed, submerged in the warmth and love of my son.
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep until I took pen to paper and wrote down the following poem formulating in my head.
“WISDOM’S FACE” The stars at night, the moon shines bright, With just the faintest speck of light— Traces from dusk’s pallet stretch across the sky. A blinking planet causes, you to pause And ask, “Could this be Mercury or Mars?” The splendors that your eyes behold, Embed within your heart and soul, And soon you find your senses are Enthralled with the wondrous creations of God. The basketball clutched in your hand, Your face holds traces of a man. The little boy now fades away, The childish carefree days of play, Replaced with questions men have asked for centuries, While caught in thoughts inspired by God’s magnificence and awe. Standing still under the sky… Dusk’s sweet decent, night’s early rise. The peaceful quiet, twinkling scene. The call of nature’s symphony. Yet, in your mind, my precious son, You wonder why tragedies come, Like pain, destruction, death, remorse. You question why the fall of man. “His Word reveals His truth, His plan. “So find your answers there and place “Your trust in His amazing grace.” I listen as you share with me, What’s on your heart, the things you see And how this moment moved you so. I want you son to always know, How much I love and hold you dear. Your strong arms hold and pull me near, You say, “Hey mom, look up at space At all the things that He creates. This world is an amazing place!” I smile and listen to the song, That Petra sings as you talk on. I smile, and utterly embrace, This growing man with wisdom’s face.
Meeting Ivan for the first time, on the cold afternoon of January 6, 2025
JANUARY 6, 2025
After spending my morning sitting in front of the computer working on a manuscript, I decided to take a break and go to the stables to check on Fly Guy, the new horse in my life. Currently, the weather here in the DFW area between the cities of Dallas and Fort Worth is bitter cold, or at least what we southerners considered “bitter cold,” meaning hovering in the lower twenties.
When I arrived at the stables, I also checked on my friend, Julie’s, horses, to make sure everyone’s winter blanket was secure on their backs, not tangled around their legs. I also checked on hay and water supplies.
After taking photos of Julie’s horses, I sent her copies, texting her that all of her babies were happy. Then she texted me about her baby, Ivan!
Ivan???
I hadn’t met Ivan yet!
I went to Ivan’s stall and found standing at the far-left corner of a very large and roomy run, a darling little bay horse staring out upon the vast pastureland, where only a few full-grown horses were grazing (Most of the horses at our stable were inside because of the cold). I called Ivan’s name and tried to snap a full body picture of him in his blanket to send to Julie. However, immediately after hearing his name, Ivan, who I guessed was probably a yearling from his size, swiftly made his way towards me.
So often, foals can be stand-offish because they are not handled on a regular basis. Ivan on the other hand couldn’t get to me fast enough. Of course I busied myself doting on him, scratching his soft, baby fur. Running my fingers through his soft mane where the ends still have the highlights from his formative years. Affection defined this sweet boy, and I immediately realized that Ivan and I would be good friends.
What a joyful blessing it is to begin the new year surrounded by the animals I love. Eagerly joyous is the year ahead, all of the wonderful riding adventures I’ll have, and watching sweet Ivan grow. We have
One day I was grooming my horse, Roo, when Polly trotted up to a gate close to the grooming area asking for attention. I couldn’t say no!
another baby at the barn that was born last spring, a little filly named Polly. I met her when I moved my horse, Roo into this new facility. Polly is a buckskin and, like Ivan, has an amazingly sweet, interactive personality. Currently she’s being weaned from her mare. We have a few other foals that are also being weaned from their mares.
I feel very fortunate to once again, be at a facility that is equipped to house stallion’s safely, foaling mares and their newborns, but best of all my personal equine family members. A good stable is worth its weight in gold.
Polly & Her Mare
I am so sad to say that little Polly recently went to graze the pastures in heaven when she lost her life due to a congenital flaw. I was heartsick when I heard, but an equally grateful for the moments of tenderness I was gifted to share with that sweet filly.
For three years now, I’ve driven passed this tree without giving it a second thought. Then one winter when it was freezing cold, when all the tree branches were bare, this tree caught my attention for the first time. I began to notice this tree in relation to the scattering of other trees growing around it. Curious, and with this article in mind, I parked my car and got out for a closer look.
I discovered that all though this tree is “different” in appearance compared to the majority of tree’s growing in this park, it is also perfectly healthy. In addition, it’s a fruitful contributor. It produces oxygen and provides homes for wildlife. It’s also pretty to look at. In fact, based upon the condition of some of the other trees growing around it, this tree is a top performer.
It’s lower branches are gnarled and growing close to the ground. One even extends along the ground for several feet. This tree doesn’t have the physical form we’re used to seeing. It’s different. It’s unique, yet despite looking different, this tree performs the same tasks all trees were created to perform and its doing its job well.
This tree has determination to survive! This is what drew me to it in the first place. Minus its spread of lovely leaves, I can see its struggle. I hear its story!
During the sapling stages of its life something bent this tree over, pressing it down. But instead of succumbing it the pressure, it continued to grow, becoming stronger and stronger. Eventually its branches became so thick and strong, it could sustain the weight of adults and children. While sitting on one of its low branches, I feel the desire to explore, thinking how much fun this tree would be to climb.
I’ve seen others sitting on the lower branches too. Enjoying a shady rest from the scalding Texas heat. Sometimes they pause long enough to eat a snack, evidenced by the discarded, plastic cup seen in one of the pictures. Frankly, this gnarled, odd-looking tree seems to be everyone’s favorite because of its accessibility, the comfort it provides, its strength, and uniqueness. This tree reminds me of my daughter, Juliann.
If you’re reading this article… I thank you! I’m also guessing that most-likely you are a mom to a special needs child. Simply because I have been told by many medical professionals that 99% of the children they see are accompanied by their moms. But that was over twenty years ago, so, if you’re a dad, I thank you even more, for the reason stated above and ask that you not be offended if it seems like I’m only addressing women. I’m not. It’s only because my story is delivered from a woman’s perspective.
Juliann, Andy & Chris in 1985
As I began writing about my life and motherhood, a sudden flood of memories laced with lessons I learned, inundated my brain. Lessons, that years ago I felt strong inclinations to share with other parents who might be facing similar circumstances as mine. My children’s needs ranged from physically handicapped, to gifted, with both of my boys having extreme ADD with hyperactivity.
My husband and I were also adoptive, foster parents, which opened our eyes to the effects of physical and emotional abuse in children and adults. In addition, I personally, have struggled my whole life with ADHD and Dyslexia.
My hope and purpose in writing this story is to offer as much encouragement as I can to other parents facing similar circumstances. To impress upon you that you are notalone in raising your special child! You are not alone in your emotions, your inner, unspoken thoughts, your isolation and the immensity of your load! Let me address your unspoken thought first…
Years ago, a counselor told me that feelings are just that—only feelings! They are neither good nor bad, it’s what you do with your feelings (how you act upon them) that matters. In a nutshell, you are not a bad person or parent because of the way you feel. And if you’re just beginning your journey down this road called special needs and can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel… I’m here to tell you, that light is there!
Juli with my husband Jeff
When I was first struck with the realization my child had significant physical differences, I felt as if I had crossed an invisible line, into an unknown world that was extremely frightening. No one else in my life was raising a child with special needs. I quickly learned that my friends and family members couldn’t begin to comprehend what I was facing.
Overwhelmed, and alone, I felt as if I was standing at the bottom of a huge mountain staring up at the top. I knew I had to climb to the summit but seriously questioned my abilities to so. Two conflicting emotions tormented me. One, I loved my baby with all of my heart. The second, and real zinger; I absolutely didn’t want to face raising a child that with special needs and a future that was unknown. In the beginning, I wished the years away, wanting to be instantly transported to the summit of that mountain. That place where all of the questions and unknowns were revealed.
My journey began with a seriously complicated pregnancy only two months after my second son, Andrew, was born. My complications resulted in an early amniocentesis, which revealed that my baby was a little girl. My husband and I were thrilled! We had our daughter and we named her Juliann (Juli). I continued to have complications throughout the pregnancy which climaxed two months before Juli’s approximate birth date. I was hospitalized, which was very difficult because I had two little boys at home. Finally, two months before Juli’s due date, she was delivered.
After raising my two boys, Chris and Andy who had just turned one, I immediately suspected that something was very wrong with Juli’s physical development which was severely delayed. Almost a year after she was born the diagnosis came—cerebral palsy. My head swam the moment I heard the words. In an instant I was propelled, for the rest of my life, into this world labeled handicapped. There was no way to escape, no way to determine the extent of Juli’s disability nor whether or not her cognitive skills were affected. She was a little bundle of mystery and the love of my heart.
Still, I did not want to raise a physically handicapped child! I can say that now but was deeply ashamed of this secret, inner truth that I never shared with anyone for several decades.
Interestingly enough, daughter’s physical differences opened my eyes to how prejudice a person I really was. As a child, growing up in the latter years of segregation I never understood social prejudice. I was also submerged in the arts, my family a collection of professional artists, musicians, my mom an award-winning singer and actor, dad a television and radio broadcaster, all within Cleveland, Ohio where I am from. My artistic family and my own endeavors as a child actress and ballerina had also taught me to not to judge someone else’s lifestyle. But the moment the word handicapped was attached to my life! I ashamed to say, that was a different story!
Juli with my horse TJ
Accepting my new state of being did not happen overnight. It was a process of multiple steps that continued throughout Juliann’s childhood. The beginning step was the hardest regarding acceptance that Juli needs would be different. My submission began while holding her tiny body close, kissing her infant hands, singing her songs, realizing I would do anything to keep my baby safe. Her needs took dominance over mine, and even though I didn’t want to manage cerebral palsy, I knew that I would do anything I had to for my daughter.
Immediately following Juliann’s diagnosis, she had further testing to give us a better understanding of her specific, physical needs. These tests became my second step. For the next twenty years Juli and I would have multiple doctor appointments, tests, surgery, equipment purchases, the first being form adjusting highchairs, walkers, wheelchairs, scooters and standers to stretch her hamstring muscles, as well as weekly occupational and physical therapy sessions. Just before she turned two, Juli had to wear glasses and an eye patch. It broke my heart, making her do this. Not just because she hated them, but because I hated covering up her adorable face. However, this treatment turned out to be excellent! By the time Juli was in the fourth grade she didn’t need to wear glasses at all.
At five years old Juli underwent a serious operation called a Dorsal Rhizotomy, which resulted in the severing over half the nerves in her lower body. Lifelong complications have resulted from that surgery, leaving me riddled with guilt wondering if I had made the right decision, despite an extensive team of physicians at Dallas Medical Center telling me this was her best option. We were part of an experiment, and I have since learned that the procedure is no longer done.
Throughout most of her childhood, Juli wore braces that wrapped around her feet supporting her legs, running up to her knees. As she grew, we had to have new braces regularly made. When she turned twelve, I supported her decision not to wear them anymore and to stop using the stander, which she hated. Next came the purchase of her first, motorized wheelchair, which meant purchasing a van with a wheelchair lift.
Before going forward, let me just say, that with each new step regarding Juliann’s development and physical needs, I went through a process or cycle of emotions. Here’s an example of what I mean, using the purchase of our first van with a wheelchair lift.
For some reason buying that van was, for me, the straw that broke the camel’s back. I hated it! It was a bulky huge vehicle and driving it frightened me. In fact, Chris named it Europe, because of its size. But the van was a necessary piece of equipment need for our entire family—for Juli.
Here’s the example of the process I went through: 1. Knowing that the van is necessary 2. Angry that the van is necessary 3. Purchasing the van 4. Angry that I absolutely had to learn how to drive the van 5. Mastering my driving skills (although Juli and her brothers endured (and still endure) bumps over curbs and the denting of quite a few handicapped signs when I park the van. 6. Acceptance (and may I add that we are getting ready to purchase our 3rd van!)
Whether it was the need for glasses, braces, surgery, medications, walkers, ect., I went through this cycle. Sometimes several times over a span of several years, before finally reaching acceptance. I’ve learned that this cycle is similar to the cycle a person experiences when dealing with grief; you experience, Denial—Isolation—Anger—Depression—Acceptance.
Juli’s physical and occupational therapist at her elementary school connected me with the most caring, heartfelt people, who not only encouraged her, but came to love her. These people were an essential source of support and information for me. They made my journey less frightening and steered me in the right direction, sometimes urging me to take action for events (such as SSI benefits) that would take place years in advance.
When Julu left the nurturing care of elementary school, to enter a far more demanding environment of middle school, she wasn’t prepared for the necessity of independence. Also, she had a difficult time connecting with special education staff. I took her out of the “heat,” and homeschooled her.
Homeschooling was something I had been thinking about doing for about four years, but didn’t have the nerve! But honestly, the experience in most ways was wonderful. The only drawback was I lost my social life because my mornings were immersed in the kids’ education; my afternoons booked driving them around to their specific activities; music lessons, sport practices and games; computer and speech classes, and theater productions my son Andy was in. And I found myself falling into an exhausted heap in the evenings.
Within a matter of two months after I pulled Juli from the public school, one by one the boys asked me to homeschool them too! Thankfully, the resources I needed were easily accessible. My children didn’t miss out on any activities or interaction with other kids their age. Lessons that I couldn’t teach such as advanced math concepts and chemistry; the kids learned through video programs that I purchased. Today there’s a rich supply of available homeschooling programs online.
When it was time for Juliann to enter high school, she and Andy both asked to be mainstreamed back into our public school system. (Chris had graduated from homeschooling and joined the Air Force as a Mandarin Chinese linguist.) During Juliann’s senior year, she spent her afternoons at a collage close to our home, working on a degree in graphic design. By the time she graduated from high school, making the dean’s and honor roll lists, she knew the college campus well.
Juli’s high school photo. She wanted them taken at home with our horse Roo. I put molasses on her arm so Roo would keep his head near her.
At this point Juli was handling herself on her own. She graduated from her associates degree and moved to live independently in Dallas to pursue a Batchelor of Arts degree, also in graphic design. She maintained her honor roll, dean’s list status with both degrees. Yet, to our shock, even with an outstanding portfolio and honorary status, job hunting and social discrimination met all of us head on.
Juli & me at her graduation from The Art Institute of Dallas
The most prominent issue was when Jeff drove her to a place for an interview and there were no entrances for a wheelchair. We discovered that potential employers were drawn to her stellar website and portfolio, however, and there’s no other way to say it—they were repulsed by the wheelchair. The moment they set eyes on Juli, even though she was well presented, and came with stellar recommendations, they changed their minds about hiring her.
The worst instance, that still make me upset, was the company that actually hired her based on her work. They asked Juli to get a drug test, then come to the office so she could meet her new coworkers. I drove Juli to the facility they recommended for the test. She looked beautiful, happiness and joy radiating from her face. Both of us were very excited as I drove her to the office, dropped the wheelchair ramp on the van, and sent her on her way, feeling great joy at the fulfillment of so many of Juli’s accomplishments.
However, moments later, Juli swiftly returned to the van. Red faced and on the edge of tears, she told me to quickly load her and get the hell away from that business.
What happened; as she entered the business, she was greeted by shocked faces. The men and woman didn’t realize that they had hired a woman in a wheelchair. Instantly they huddled in a corner, talking about Juli, glancing her way. Juli knew that they were talking about her and felt immediate shame. Finally, one of them walked up to Juli and told her there had been a grave mistake and they couldn’t hire her after all.
A recent photo (fall 2024) of Juli meeting my currant mount, Fly Guy
I sat in the van seething, fighting the strong desire to go into this place and slap American Disability Act in their face. Juli beseeched me not too. Understanding her need to get away from those people, I drove away. Sometimes you simply have to walk in forgiveness.
Now that Juliann is an adult, my husband, Chris and I are constantly on call, concerned about her safety. Three times Juli was hit by a car, as she was crossing a busy Dallas street to access the train station home. Amazingly, by the grace of God, she was unharmed, however, her wheelchair was totaled. One woman didn’t see her, ran a red light and send both Juli and her chair to the ground.
Occasionally her wheelchair breaks down! Leaving her stranded in Dallas (as well as defenseless). There are also the times when she’s waiting for the train, and a creepy person is too close. She calls us, and one of us stays of the phone with her until she’s safely on the train heading home. Home and my husband and I are an hour away from Dallas.
Then there was the time when she was on her way to school, and at the train station, a homeless man tried to pull her from her wheelchair, stating he was going to throw her in the street and kill her. But that’s a story for another time.
Jeff and I gave her advice and watched her positively worked with the Dallas DART system to control the homeless people, and drug addicts living in elevators that she and some of her coworkers must access every day. The process took several months. Jeff and I supported her at a meeting with the DART council, to thank them for the changes they worked earnestly to fix. This all happened in the wake of Covid 19.
Today, Juliann is 39 years old. She eventually found a wonderful job with Bank of American and after almost ten years still works with the outstanding company. Home for her is now close to ours. The drawback is she travels has to travel an hour commute (both ways) to get to work in Dallas. She is happy and although Bank of America didn’t hire her for graphic design, they have learned about of her talent in graphic design. Just before covid, Juli was given an artist’s computer and special cubby hole where she can work on graphic projects the company has been giving her.
Juli did the graphic work
As I look back upon my children’s upbringing, there are so many things I would like to have done differently. But I have to remind myself, that, at the time… I did the very best I could, with the abilities I was given and the tools that I possessed. That’s all any of us can do really, our best.As parents, especially women, we need to remember to take care of ourselves, the same way we take care of our children! A little fact that gets brushed under the carpet while juggling our family and work life (I also worked while raising my kids). An important lesson that I learned was that I couldn’t give to my family what I myself didn’t have to give. In other words, if I didn’t have patience when handling my kids, my kids in turn were impatient.
In Texas, the foster care system understands the importance of this need for rest. So much so, that they pay for parents to take short, overnight respites away from their house and children. I understand that leaving for the night isn’t an option for some people, finances and childcare being the main reasons. Still, everyone needs a break, especially if your raising children with special needs. Find the time and make it a priority. Search the internet for creative ideas. Most importantly, learn to discipline yourself concerning these times! Meaning don’t talk about or mull over in your mind, your children’s issues. This time is for you and your partner! Remember, even Jesus sought moments of solitude and rest.
Just a few days before December 2004, Juli and I went on a mother & daughter outing. Part of our day included dropping by a jewelry store to get her Grandmother Kissell’s wedding ring restored. While we were there, I made a comment about an exquisite diamond and emerald necklace I saw. To my utter amazement, Juli bought it for me!
Both Jeff and I only experienced moments of brief twilight sleep during our long flight from Qatar to Hanoi, the capital city of Vietnam. I opened my eyes and pulled the shade up from the window to see the first streaks of dawn color the sky. Silently watching the light slowly increase. Below the plane, as far as the eye could see spread a sea of white clouds, so thick and fluffy, you felt for sure they would sustain your body weight as you played within their soft folds. I was reminded of my childhood days in Ohio, the heavy snowfalls of several feet that turned the town of Bay Village and the city of Berea into winter wonderlands.
My reminiscence was interrupted as the plane turned to the right, and gentle broke through the surface of clouds into a canyon of cloud formations, with deep inclines and high peaks. Above us spread a carpet of white; below the same, only gray scaled. The plane pressed downward, and Hanoi appeared, a gray blur, and I knew the forecast for rain was true. Scattered below us were individual clusters of homes nestled together in neighborhoods. They were surrounded and separated by farmland. The entire land was cast in a mist, brownish in hue with tones of green.
Unlike Britian and France, where the streets have designated areas for vehicles and bicycles, the streets of Vietnam flow in courteous chaos. There are no designated lanes, everyone drives beside each other, slow and fearless, but somehow this policy works. Later we learned that a 30-minute walk to a restaurant could be accessed in 10 minutes on a motorbike; the same distance taking 1 hour by taxi because of the traffic.
Early into our drive to our hotel, my allergies started flaring up, and I realized that, as I suspected, the film in the air was smog, or soot, some kind of pollution and it covered everything. We passed groves of banana and coconut trees. Every inch of usable ground serves as a garden. The homes, instead of spreading wide, are built with many ascending floors, with garden space on the roof and open areas for hanging laundry. They are sandwiched tightly in-between apartment buildings, and businesses.
There is an equal mix of dilapidated structures mixed with the new. We are driving through the old side of Hanoi, which to my eye looks poverty stricken. But during our time in Hanoi, we would come to see the city and its people differently.
We learned about their great pride and patriotism, their self-sufficient methods of providing for themselves (thus the gardens) and their strong desire to help Hanoi and Vietnam in general, continue to grow for the future. They are hardworking people, kind and eager to please.
Throughout our travels in Vietnam, I am struck by the impact Covid 19 continues to have on the population. They are still working their way back to a new normalcy. For many this has been an upward climb. One of the key factors to their economy is bringing back tourism! And throughout my limited travels, I have never seen people so eager to please.
The downtown city closed in on us unexpectedly and was unlike anything I have ever seen. You are struck with wonder watching the flurry of activity surrounding you at all angles. The streets are busy with heavy traffic, that miraculously flows with ease. Merchants are crammed next to each other yet marked as individuals. We pass spas, restaurants, clothing and other stores jam packed with merchandise. At one point we entered streets where all of the merchants sell Christmas decorations. The deeper into the city we travel, the buildings take on a new life, big, more recent structures. Many of them are beautifully decorated for Christmas.
I’m taken with the large variation of architecture around me, primarily the Asian influences, which to my eye are foreign and exotic. I watch passengers sitting sidesaddle on motorbikes, texting on their phones as they travel. They are relaxed; most likely grew up being transported on these vehicles. I’ve seen many parents with infants and small children in tow. And just as our long journey begins to fatigue Jeff and I, our taxi stops in front of the sweetest hotel, The Oriental Jade.
From the moment we stepped out of our taxi we were greeted by several men and women, all beautifully dressed, who scurred to rescue us from our luggage and help us into the hotel. All of them spoke excellent English. Walking into the Oriental Jade, I immediately felt the stress of our long journey begin to melt away. The men and women who work in this hotel treated us as if their sole purpose to was make us comfortable and they succeeded.
After Jeff checked us in, we settled in a pleasant area, where we were served cool, wet clothes to refresh our hands and brows, for the temperature outside was very humid and warm. Next, we were given a welcoming drink, which I believe was pineapple and orange juice blend.
They also gave us a handout that gave brief but appreciated details about the amenities in the hotel as well as advice on how to travel the streets of Hanoi safely.
Here are some of their helpful suggestions: 1. When crossing the road: stay relaxed and self-confident, move slowly, paying attention to the drivers and never step backwards. 2. How to ward off pushy vendors: don’t touch anything unless you want to buy it; avoid smiling or make eye contact with vendors; keep moving forward passing their store quickly 3. How to bargain: start with 20% to 50% off of what the vendor first states, then negotiate for the best rate 4. How to avoid street risks: do not walk alone; don’t wear valuable jewelry; keep your bags, backpacks, and all personal items in front of you. (Vy (our venue’s bride) also recommended that instead of a purse wear a bag that fastens over your shoulders with the zipper compartment carried in front. In addition, she told me to add a cover-all over that. Pickpockets are everywhere! You even need to take precautions when using your cell phone.
The woman who gave us our orientation, expresses the importance of having the hotel, not only book your dinner reservations, but to also assist you with finding a safe and honest taxi driver. Apparently, there are a great many drivers who make a substantial living on unsuspecting tourists who don’t know where they are.
Jeff had the front desk make reservations for us at a restaurant they recommend, and we retired to our room, to freshen up. Our room, like the rest of the hotel, was clean and comfortable. Even the instant coffee they supplied us with was delicious and quite honestly, we enjoyed it so much Jeff bought some to take home. The long hours of traveling had rapidly caught up with me and I slept for about 4 hours, while my nomadic husband checked out the stores close to our hotel.
Later that evening, Jeff and I stepped into the city. The sun had set yet the city flourished with new activity. Both sides of the street were absolutely jam packed with vendors. Every store is brilliantly lit and advertised with neon signs. As Jeff and I maneuvered our way along the sidewalks, walking “relaxed and self-confidently,” we quickly learned that the sidewalks are really parking areas for the motorbikes. They are also blocked by store vendors who most likely live above their store fronts and have expanded their living spaces to include the front area of their stores up to the street and occasionally small alleys between stores.
Families are eating dinner on small plastic tables and chairs. Other people use crates and boxes to sit on. You find yourself very cramped and end up walking along the curb of the street or into the street itself. There are also very large tree roots that have broken through the cement making walkways difficult. You are submerged in a flurry of activity, surrounded by colored lights, noise and smells, particularly the mixture of different foods cooking in the open air, along with the occasional smell of urine, which flashed me back to my younger days walking the streets of New York City with Jeff.
It took Jeff and I a little longer to find our restaurant, Duong’s, than we expected, but we wouldn’t have traded the experience of walking the streets to absorb the essence of Hanoi. After finding our name on the reservation list, the receptionist led us to our table and proceeded to go over our specific food allergies.
Unbeknown to us, the Oriental Jade had notified the restaurant of our specific dietary needs. This gratuity has never happened to us before! It was lovely going into a dining experience to discover that your hotel was watching out for you even when you left their doors. We enjoyed a lovely, several course meal, but instead of walking back to the hotel we had the restaurant call us a taxi.
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After a good night’s rest, Jeff and I ventured downstairs for breakfast. I have to say that the Oriental Jade’s breakfast spread was one of my favorite eating experiences in Vietnam. The buffet included multiple egg options, waffles and pancakes, sushi, exotic passion and dragon fruits along with melons, olives, nuts, yogurts, and much more. The coffee is worth mentioning too. It is served a bit differently than in the states. There is a large variety of different coffee’s too, such as egg and my personal favorite, coconut. The coffee itself is thick and dark, like an expresso. For those like me who enjoy their coffee sweet, sweeten condensed milk is served along with cream and sugar and even chocolate shavings.
After breakfast, Jeff and I left the Oriental Jade to join a one day/night cruise trip through Hanoi Bay, but we would return to spend one more night at The Oriental Jade.
To date, the Jade is one of the nicest hotels I’ve had the pleasure to stay with. It is five stars, luxury hotel, with affordable prices, and an amazing staff. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to stay longer and enjoy their pool and take advantage of the spa, which offers a good variety of treatments. Their customer care service is outstanding. When you are traveling so far away from home, you need to stay at a hotel that goes above and beyond with their service. Please consider staying at this jewel in Hanoi.
THE ORIENTAL JADE – Hotel & Spa 92-94 Hang Trong Str., Hoan Kiem Dist., Hanoi, Vietnam www.theorientaljadehotel.com sales@theorientaljadehotel.com
Tuesday night, on December 3, 2024, Jeff and I boarded an 11:00 flight on Qatar airlines, for a flight that would take 14.5 hours, from Dallas – Fort Worth (DFW) airport to the country, Qatar. From Qatar, we would board another plan for another 7-hour flight to our first destination Hanoi, the capital city of Vietnam. The purpose for this trip to Vietnam was to attend a traditional Vietnamese wedding for our dear family members, Johnny and Vy Cameron, in the city of Ho Chi Min (Saigon).
Not sure what to expect, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the Qatar aircraft was very clean and extremely inviting, even though we were flying economy. The flight attendants, all of them beautiful women, wearing appealing outfits, with their hair fastened into uniformed buns at the nape of their necks, greeted us as we boarded the plane. We soon learned that their beauty included attentive and kind dispositions. However, from the moment we discovered our seats (three in a row) with an elderly woman (about my age) sitting in the middle seat clutching a large carry-on bag, trouble began to brew.
Jeff had booked our flight and seat assignment several months in advance. Jeff is more comfortable with aisle seats, so he is able to stretch out his long legs. My preference is the window, where I have a wall next to me to curl up to. As we took our seats, trying to settle our carry-ons for the flight, the woman began to raise a raucous. Animated, and standing with her bag held close to her chest, she loudly protested in Arabic against sitting in-between us. Then in English she insisted that one of us move so that we were sitting together. A troubled attendant patiently asked her to please settle down. The woman responded by calling, what I later learned was her son, on her cell phone. I could hear her son trying to settle her anxiety as she franticly asked him to intercede. They hung up. Moments later she called him again.
Growing more and more distressed, the lady insisted that the attendant find her another seat. To which, the attendant summoned the head attendant to explain to her that the plane was packed to the brim and no other seats were available. Again, the woman called her son.
The next issue arose when the head attendant insisted that she stow her large bag in the overhead storage compartment for takeoff. What happened next defined the word “conniption.”
She called her son.
The head attendant began to threaten to remove her from the plane. Their heated interaction continued for a several minutes, until an Arabic speaking man was found and come to her aid. He spoke calmly, and with kindness. Resigned, the lady agreed to let Jeff help her store her bag, and the plane prepared for takeoff.
The whole encounter ruffled both Jeff and my feathers. With such a long flight ahead of us we dreaded having to sit next to this woman. She was claiming both sides of the armrests next to her. I complained to Jeff when she briefly left for the restroom; Jeff empathized, he was experiencing the same emotions and evasion on her elbow into his side. When she returned, she struggled to retrieve a suitcase and the large bag from the overhead compartment. Jeff came to her rescue, placing the suitcase at her feet where it remained for the entire flight. The bag she held close to her chest. Once she was settled, a gentle tranquility fell upon the plane. The only sounds came from infants and toddlers and the humming sounds the plane’s engine made.
One of the nicest options Qatar airlines offers for parents is an infant bassinet that attaches to the wall in front of the parent’s seat. I was greatly impressed with the many small children who endured the flight and their parents who successfully kept them entertained and soothed. Memories of my flight from Connecticut to California with baby Juliann in tow flashed in my mind. Juli screamed and cried almost the entire time, no matter what I tried to do. No amount of jostling, patting, feeding, or walking the aisles helped.
I don’t remember who began the conversation, but the lady next to me and I soon started to share bits and pieces about ourselves. I learned that she was born, raised, and currently lived in Iraq. She asked me if I had ever visited her country. I told her I hadn’t, withholding that four of my boys had served in the Iraqi war to bring down Saddam Hussein. As a child, she descended from a very large family, then she birthed an equally large family of their own. Inspired by my interest, she began sharing family photos of, her children, grandchildren and friends telling me their names and who they were. Clearly, a great deal of love circulated among this family; this woman was loved and gave love in turn.
I learned that she was an English teacher in Iraq. Which surprised me, but taking in account our ability to converse and understand each other, I came to respect. When, she came across a photo of her husband who she told me had passed away a few years ago, she became grief stricken and pointed to Jeff. Immediately I was taken with how much Jeff looked like the man. And in that moment understood why sitting by Jeff distraught her. She had loved and still loved her husband. I believe there was a cultural issue too. As a widowed woman she felt it was improper sitting between a married couple. In this understanding she and I shared a quiet moment.
Dinner was served. The airline took care to cater to my gluten free needs. After the dinnerware was cleared away and our tables were stowed, we each again, settled into quiet place. My new friend shared with me a piece of gum. She had set the large bag she was clinging to on top on her suitcase while we ate. Fetching it she pulled from its contents a small case. Inside the case I saw insulin injection needles. I watched as she injected three shots into her belly and one into her thigh. I could tell that the injection in her thigh hurt, and my heart went out to her.
Immediately I understood the importance of the large bag and why she wanted to keep it close at hand. I too had a carry on containing the many medications that keep my body functioning. I too always carry my medications (and electronics) with me since someone working for the airline in Costa Rica, stole my medications, electronics and jewelry from my checked suitcase, leaving me stranded, which was something this lady couldn’t risk, because her diabetes was too serious!
Since we were in the midst of the holidays, I asked her if she had any celebrations approaching and was, taken by surprise when she told me that she was a believer in Jesus and celebrated Christmas. In fact, not only did her entire family celebrate the birth of Christ, but her surrounding neighborhood did to. My friend, and sister in Christ, told me that she opens her house to her family and neighbors who all congregate together. They feast on a wonderful meal and exchange small gifts.
When we parted ways, Jeff and I later saw her in the airport. She was sitting in a wheelchair with an attendant pushing her to her connective gate for her flight home to Iraq.
As I write this, I am sitting in a lovely lounge in Qatar airport. The lounge is clean, bathrooms too. The employees are once again beautiful people, sharply dressed and extremely attentive. Qatar airport is impressive! Large, beautifully decorated for the holidays. The lounge I’m in is the perfect place to retreat for a layover. In an hour, Jeff and I board another Qatar plane for our flight to Hanoi, Vietnam.
Sometimes in the disappointment of an unexpected tragedy, a miracle is birthed. Such was the case with Alexandra’s wedding, which took place several years ago. The wedding was set within the lush Botanical Gardens, in Dallas, Texas. Buses pulled in front of the atrium dropping off my husband and I along with many other guests, two hundred in total. All of them relatives and friends who had traveled from all over the United States and Canada to attend the event.
But as we entered the reception hall, we were shocked to see a stark, bare room, unembellished and quickly learned that the caterer had assumed the wrong date, leaving Alexandra, her husband Mark, and all of the guests without a party. A very troubled Father-of-the-Bride paced the floor in desperation.
Instantly, concerned guests congregated together and organized into committees. Cell phones buzzed as we searched for the quickest, most accessible restaurants and food stores where supplies could be purchased. Alexandra, Mark and their parents were instructed to concentrate only on the actual wedding and to leave the reception to us.
As the wedding ceremony drew near, three groups set out in pursuit of the supplies we needed to quickly create a Cinderella reception. One group of men focused on purchasing drinks, while another tracked down dozens of pizza parlors. A group of women, including me, dressed in our evening gowns and high heels, invaded a nearby grocery store. We literally emptied shelves full tablecloths, paper plates, cups, napkins, plastic utensils, tea candles and bag after bag of assorted chips and other snacks, tossing them into our carts.
We arrived back at the reception hall carrying our wares and unloading them on a table. Immediately the other guests flocked around the table to help. Several women ripped the plastic from the paper tablecloths and began covering the tables. Several others established an area to the side of the room for drinks and snacks. Fortunately, the florist had arrived delivering the flower and arrangements were set on every table, along with candles they had brought. In less than a half hour, while the wedding party posed for pictures in the garden, oblivious to the flurry of activity taking place in the reception hall, the room looked as if a fairy godmother had transformed it.
Someone noticed that we needed more ice. So, my friends and I, now heady with glee, went back to the grocery store. We called ourselves, “the fifteen minute wedding planners.” When we returned with a carload of Styrofoam coolers and several bags of ice, we discovered that the men had also set out for the same purchase. An orchestra had arrived. They were seated at the head of a dance floor, instruments tuned and ready in their hands. I ran up to the balcony where I could overlook the whole scene. Marveling that within the past hour, every single one of Alex and Marks guests pitched in out of love, sharing heartbreak over the caterer’s mistake, and together as a unified team reversed the tragedy into the most amazing wedding I have ever experienced.
From the balcony I watched the bride and groom with their wedding party enter the reception hall. Expecting a gloomy scene, they were stunned when their eyes beheld a beautiful room full of ecstatic guests and dazzling tables. The congregation of guests applauded the Bride and Groom as the orchestra serenaded them into each other’s arms. Shortly afterward, the appetizing smell of pizza drifted through the room and if you can imagine, there were enough pies for over two hundred people to have their fill with plenty of leftovers.
The mix-up with the caterer was indeed a tragedy. One that Alexandra’s mothers still finds difficult to talk about. Memories bring back that moment of pain that comes with unfulfilled expectations. Yet the guests, who dearly love this family, will always remember how desperation united them with the ability to reverse the pain of calamity.
Alexandra and Mark will face challenges in their lives, as every married couple do, but the difference is that they know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that their family and friends will always be available to help and support them in their times of need. In the ugly face of disappointment, hope pierced through the darkness, encircling them with love.
It’s Christmas eve, and my family is fed. The kitchen is clean. Our dishwasher hums as I wipe off the table for the last time. Grabbing my coat, I headed toward the barn. A blustery wind seems to pick me up off my feet, pushing me forward. The sky is very dark. The air carries the crisp cold of winter.
I walk into the barn and switch on the overhead light. My horses perk up not expecting my visit. They look at me with eyes blinking against the sudden light. The stables are clean. The stalls are deeply bedded with straw. Rose and Roo are content and sleepy as they nuzzle me with a greeting. I feel the day’s tension and pressures begin to fade in contrast to the warm and friendly atmosphere in the barn.
My thoughts turn toward the manger, many years ago, also embedded with straw and filled with gentle creatures such as my own, witnessing the birth of a baby Jesus. I visualize Mary and Joseph huddled together with Jesus wrapped in their arms. They are at once a family. How well I remember when Jeff and I suddenly became three after the birth of our son Christopher. I know the well of emotion that flooded my heart when I saw my son’s face for the first time. I already knew him; through his little movements and internal timeclock that I had grown accustomed to.
Hugging my horses, I take in their sweet scent and the deliciousness cold air draws from hay and straw. It’s remarkable how the warmth of my horses can chase away the cold. As I ponder this, I am struck by how God blessed the animals resting in the manger with Mary and Joseph. Suddenly I realize the only the animals witnessed the intimacy of Jesus’ birth. Animals understand birth, so I’m sure they realized what was happening. I can picture their curiosity as they timidly extended their necks to see if Mary was okay. Their soft noses carefully taking in the baby’s scent after he was born. All of them, the holy family and the animals feeling very close to God.
I can see God’s wisdom in His plan to have Jesus born in a manger, where warmth and gentle companionship would embrace the chosen family. Where there was peace and unquestioned acceptance. God surrounded his son with the tranquility of the very creatures He had created.
Did the animals somehow understand that they were witnessing God’s precious gift to the world? Could it be possible that the animals knew who the baby was, when so many people would reject Him?
Standing in Roo’s stall I petted his neck considering this last thought. Rosie gave me a firm nudge with her nose, reminding me that she wanted attention too. I give it to her, positioning myself between both horses, simultaneously petting their necks, before saying goodnight.
Walking back to my house, invigorated by the night air, I can almost hear sleigh bells ringing. I pause to gaze into the sea of stars, focusing on a small twinkling light. Too often we are taught that the manger was a cold, unfortunate setting for the birth of Christ. But now I realize that isn’t true!
The manger wasn’t an accident, it was intentional. God placed His beloved, family within the acceptance and warmth of the gentlest creatures on earth. And I’m sure that after Mary and Joseph’s long journey, following the birth of their son, the three of them found supernatural peace. The kind of peace that surpasses understanding. And with the animals they were able to sleep, undisturbed by a noisy hotel.
So often throughout my walk with God, I am continuously drawn back to the simplicity of small blessings, where I often find God’s lessons the most powerful. It’s the quietude in still places where I hear His voice the strongest. It was gratitude that drew me to Him and gratitude that sustains my journey in faith. This holiday season, as you celebrate whatever your family embraces, seek joy in the smaller blessings, for it is in those blessings where strength and joy are drawn.
Within the bowels of the dungeon, stood a man shackled in chains. His eyes stared, unfocused. For hopelessness dulls the senses of men.
Time had transported the man chained against the stone wall, into a stagnant existence. No longer could he determine day from night, nor did he care. But as the sound of a commotion outside drew near, increasing into cries from an angry mob, the ear of the chained man was captured. He could hear the massive door to the dungeon open. As it did, sounds from the mob, the cracking of whips, increased in volume. He felt a burst of fresh air rush through the stinking prison, announcing the arrival of another man. Followed by the clamoring of boots upon the narrow stone steps.
Torches lit the stairway leading down to the prisoner’s chamber. Casting shadows, encased in golden light to dance upon the walls. Moments later, the soldiers appeared, pushing into the chamber two, new prisoners, not one. At the commander’s order, the two men were shackled to the floor. The chained man watched, taken back by the deep, purple bruises swelling on their beaten bodies. What had these men done to warrant such severe abuse? The commander addressed the jailor, threatening, if the two men escaped, it would cost the jailer his life. Snatching a torch from an iron bracket on the wall, the commander turned and left the dungeon, taking with him the golden light.
Shocked by the commander’s threat, the jailor stared at the two men, feeling a moment of compassion. But experience and fear, pushed his compassion away. Rubbing his forehead, he assigned a fresh set of guards to watch over the two men and retired to the comforts of his private quarter’s where he could rest. The chained man shook with hatred for the guards. Anger bubbled inside of him causing his body to shake. The sight of the guards, always brought back memories of his life that was lost. Memories the chained man struggled to forget. A draft, cooled by the dungeon’s stony depths, circulated through the chamber, caressing the chained man, sending gooseflesh down his arms and legs. Trembling, the man stood, in his chains, forgotten, caught in the clutches of hell.
Somewhere in the darkness, the new prisoners groaned. They were stunned that death had passed them by. Moving slow, for every movement brought fresh ripples of pain, they inched their bodies as close together as their shackles would allow. Quietly, talking. Their words fell like feathered whispers, rising and falling, growing in strength, echoing off the dungeon’s walls. Some of the prisoners began to curse, when they realized the two men were talking to God. Praising God, as if God was in the dungeon with them. As if God was listening.
The chained man wondered if the two men were mad. New prisoners always made frantic pleas to God when they first arrived, but never spoke words of praise. In time, their voices stilled, once they realized that God wasn’t listening, that God didn’t care. Still, the praises of the two men grew in strength. They lifted their voices, empowered by faith that seemed to know no limitations.
As the praise increased in volume, the cursing men shouted profanities, mocking and stupefying the two men’s faith. Yet, the psalmists, raised their voices louder. They praised without desperation, but adoration accompanying every word. Their words transformed into songs. Songs that resonated through the dungeon’s chamber. As the chained man listened to the melodic strains, he felt a stirring of hope. A foreign energy had somehow pierced through the dungeon’s walls causing tears to stream down his face. The prisoner’s shouting profanities yelled louder, with faces bibulous and red. Insane men babbled and cackled, gyrating up and down. The guards looked at each other bewildered and alarmed, as the uprising intensified into uncontrollable bedlam.
The chained man barely noticed the tremor that shook the earth until the dungeon’s foundation began to shake. He stood in terror, as ear-piercing sounds from the shaking intensified. He felt the wall vibrate against his back. The shackles around his wrists and ankles cut into his flesh. The dungeon lurched and shifted, sending boulders from the ceiling crashing down. When unexpectedly, the chained man’s shackles opened and he fell to the ground, unhindered.
With eyes closed and teeth grit, the man waited for the deadly strike that would surely hit him at any moment. He welcomed it. The floor shimmied and shuddered beneath his hands and knees. Boulders continued to fall from above. The dust was so thick none of the men could see. Breathing was difficult. The thundering sounds of the walls falling in drowned out the men’s cries of panic… Then… the quivering stopped. Boulders became stones. All was still, except for a showering of loosened pebbles.
Sunlight, coming from the shattered roof, spilled down through the settling dust. The men were scattered; every one of them free from his chains. For several minutes there was silence, no one dared to make a sound. The unexpected freedom was so astonishing that it rendered the men unable to move. Not one, instigated the desire to escape. The silence was broken by the frantic jailer bursting through the dungeon’s door, downing the stairs. Seeing the prisoner’s free from their chains, he pulled his sword from its sheath in fear, readying his hand to plunge the blade into his heart. The new prisoner, named Paul, yelled for him to stop. Reassuring him that every one of the prisoners was accounted for. The jailor’s life was safe!
Stunned, the jailer moved to step forward, but his legs buckled beneath him. As he fell, Paul, and the other named, Silas, went to his aid. The jailer marveled at the respectful way they treated him and remembered their cause. They spoke of Jesus, the Nazarene, who was crucified. Whose followers, like these men, believed he rose from the dead, calling him the Messiah, the Son of the living God. A hush descended upon the prison as each man realized they were in the presence of the supernatural. Humbled, like small children, they waited to be told what to do next.
The free man stood. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he examined the scars on his ankles and wrists. He looked at the open shackles hanging from what remained of the dungeon’s wall, savoring the pleasure of moving his unhindered limbs. Waves of emotion gripped his heart as he listened, while the jailor asked questions about Jesus. As Paul answered them, the free man believed. The seed of hope inside of him grew, expanding as the dawn rising over the horizon, stirring him with its powerful love. He never knew there was such love! Falling to his knees he realized the light of Salvation had conquered his darkness forever.
