Who said, “Practice makes perfect,” anyway? I’ve been a practicing Christian for over four decades. Many days I feel I’ll never get it right. In spite of a lifetime of following Christ, I still haven’t sprouted angel wings or sprung a halo. (Just ask my family.)

 Sometimes I can’t even remember Bible verses I’ve practiced since childhood.

As the Preacher and I sped down the highway on our way to Regina for yet more medical tests, we remembered that we hadn’t taken time for our daily six-pack—our shared reading of five Psalms, and one chapter of Proverbs. We’ve done that for several years. Usually, somewhere among those treasures, God points out at least one verse especially appropriate for that day.

“Hey, let’s recite Psalm 23,” I said, remembering the date.

“Go for it,” said the Preacher.

Prairie surrounded us, white and flat as paper. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters….” I intoned, wishing for a little green right then. “…and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever!” I finished with a flourish, a few seconds later.

“Now say it right,” said the Preacher.

“What’d I miss?”

“The ‘He restores my soul’ part. The ‘paths of righteousness for his name’s sake’ part. The ‘valley of the shadow’ part. The ‘oil on my head’ part. ”

“I said the ‘restores my soul’ part. And the ‘valley of the shadow’ part!”

“Nope, ya didn’t.”

“Did too.”

“Nope.”

I almost asked him whose brain we were headed into Regina to get examined anyway. But I didn’t, because I likely did miss those parts of my favorite psalm. Even with the lingering effects of West Nile encephalitis, on a good day his brain always works better than mine.

Thankfully, God doesn’t judge his kids based on how many Bible verses they can recite. Not even on how often they go to church. He looks for the Son in their eyes, not wings on their back, or a halo sprouting from the hairline.

But the intentional practice of faith in Christ, like sunshine, does alter a body. It beams its way into every cranny of our lives—the commonplace, everyday things we don’t even associate with “religion”.

Thanks to the internet, Sunny Side Up goes around the world now, but nine years ago, when I began writing this faith and life column in the local paper, Yorkton This Week, (it’s still published there–my editor has been gracious!) that was the kind of faith I hoped to demonstrate to my readers. Faith without wings or halos. A faith that looks at life through Son-glasses, not rose-colored spectacles.

For years, loyal readers have pled with me to put past columns between in a book. I’m tickled to report that the first year of Sunny Side Up columns are now between covers, and will soon be available in major Christian bookstores and other places across Canada and North America and online.

We’ve called it Practice by Practice, The art of everyday faith–the first in a series of planned column compilations, titled “The Preacher and Me“.

From an author not even in the running for a halo.

Signed copies are available at (www.kathleengibson.ca/practicebypractice) or click on the right sidebar link. 

“Know what? We need a scapegoat,” I told the Preacher. “Someone to take the blame for everything that goes wrong around here.”

He chuckled.

It all started the day the car stereo died. We’d had music on the way to our friends’ home, but driving back, the radio wouldn’t turn on. “Locked,” read the digital display.

“You used it last,” the Preacher said. “What’d ya do to it?”

My hackles stood at attention. Unmerited blame, they shrieked.

“Nothing—at least nothing I haven’t done a thousand times,” I huffed. “I turned it off.”

The Preacher began fiddling with knobs, trying to fix the problem, still sure I’d caused it. Nothing worked. Stewing at his accusation, I stared straight ahead.

Happily, the next time the car started, so did the stereo.

We agreed later: we have a bad habit of leaping to place blame. It begins early in the morning some days…

“When I got up in the middle of the night, the kitchen had a strange blue glow. SOMEBODY forgot to turn off the stereo last night.” (Replace the last part, the part after “forgot to,” with “turn off the porch light,” or “turn down the furnace,” or “lock the door.”

Ad nauseum.

Yes, we said, a scapegoat would help. And then I remembered.

Decades ago, when the Preacher’s maternal grandmother died, we travelled East for her funeral.

Grandma Corney owned hundreds of unmarked antique family photos. No one wanted them, but somehow the box ended up at the Preacher’s mother’s home.

One afternoon, as Mom sat doing a crossword puzzle, I sifted through it, wondering about the stories forever hidden behind the unnamed, unsmiling faces—especially the face in one beautifully preserved professional photo. Nicely posed in a field, stood a large, white, long-haired—and rather regal-looking—goat.

I snickered. “Hey, Mom, is this a relative too?”

Without looking up, she answered, “They’re all relatives.”

I stuck the picture under her nose. She laughed. “I’ve never seen that goat before. My mother never told me his story!”

The forgotten goat fascinated me. No one knew or wanted him, so when we left Ontario, I tucked him in my suitcase, brought him home, and put him in storage, thinking I may have a use for him one day. Or perhaps learn why someone had once loved and honoured him.

We used the old goat as a play prop once. For the most part, we ignored him for years. But after the car stereo hiccupped, I dug him out.

The Preacher named him Cornelius S. (“Scape”) Goat and hung him on the wall above the parrot cage. He serves us well there, bearing the penalty for our errors and disasters with dignity and grace.

He’s brought a degree of peace. Even better, he’s a marvelous conversation piece. I hardly ever wonder about his real story anymore.

A token picture of Christ hangs in many homes, churches, and facilities. Seems to me, he and the old goat have much in common.

The Preacher and I spoke at one of our former churches a while back. The platform seemed lower and wider, but the church had changed little in two decades.

 It took a long time to get to my seat—too many friends lined the aisles. And I would have missed Lisa altogether if she hadn’t spoken. Her serene face, now etched and weathered, raised as I passed. “Do you remember me?”

 I’d know that Scandinavian accent anywhere. For two years, Lisa had been my “secret sister”.

 She’d drawn my name one year, I’d drawn hers the next. I remember well her anonymous monthly notes. Her small “special day” gifts were chosen with obvious love and care. One especially.  

 On the day I opened Lisa’s birthday gift to me, I recall wondering what woman could have given it. Staunch, no-nonsense farm women populated the women’s group. An artist at heart, I felt often like a bird that had strayed from its natural habit.

 The gift seemed a great contradiction: a tiny rectangular box that didn’t open, decorated with a painting of a mother and a child, holding hands and walking down a long road. From its side protruded a crank with a red knob on the end.

 Puzzled, I turned the crank. Out came a tune—La Vie en Rose.

 I wound the music box up often that year, just for the tickle it brought. Somehow it helped me forget my feelings of displacement. Someone in that church had chosen a gift of absolutely no practical value. Something crafted only to bring delight. The thought comforted me.

 At the end of the year, I learned her name. Lisa had also been transplanted to that community. For years she’d tried to fit in. No doubt she understood my unspoken feelings.

 “Of course I remember you,” I said now. “How could I forget? I still have the music box you gave me. It’s survived all our moves!”

 Lisa slowly raised a closed hand, then opened it. In her palm rested a small circular brooch that appeared to have Scandinavian origins. Its circumference was decorated with scalloped edges and embossed hearts. At the center rested a small, bouquet of tiny, perfectly formed roses and forget-me-nots.

 “Do you remember this?” she asked shyly.

 I stared, unbelieving.

 “You made it for me,” she said.

 I had, indeed. In the days when I worked more with art, and less with words, I’d carefully sculpted its every bud and blossom—even the white carved base, from bread, white glue, and acrylic paint.

 “You kept it!” Our eyes met over her hand. In that moment I think we both knew, in the quiet places of our hearts, that God had arranged those gifts himself.

 When life places you – even by what seems your own choice – in situations where you feel lost, alone, and out of your comfort zone, know this: God hasn’t lost your address. If you watch for his unexpected gifts, you’ll find them.

Could have been his grey hair. Most likely his walker, a long-term result of his West Nile neurological Disease. But a few weekends back, someone much younger guessed the Preacher’s age at 75—almost two decades up the road. It stuck in his craw, I think.

At precisely 8:45 last evening, he yawned and snapped off the lamp beside his chair. “I’m going to bed.”

We’d just finished watching a movie—the story of a pre-WW11 family who, tired of their dreary English countryside, moved to a villa in Greece. There they had lively and extravagant experiences, involving people and a menagerie of “other animals”.

Without leaving our living room, the movie transported us about as far from a Saskatchewan winter as one could imagine.

For ninety minutes, we watched warm, wild and colorful sights. Heard exuberant, lively sounds. Lived with that zany English family in the sun-warmed Greek countryside. I howled, the Preacher chuckled. Even Ernie the parrot, perched on my shoulder, got all stirred up.

Ernie gets excited often—by the arrival of company, the ringing of a phone, or the playing of the piano. He sounds like a cross between a famished donkey and a flock of irate crows at first. Then he moves on to big noise—garbled, guttural hellos and a vast variation of whistles and unexplainable utterances.

After he mussed up my hair and tried to crack my ear (albeit gently) I transferred him to the Preacher’s shoulder. There he contented himself with laughing whenever we did, and clucking like a chicken at the loudest parts.

Far too much quiet descended the moment I ejected the DVD. Even Ernie clammed up. 

I looked over at the Preacher. “Good grief, Rick, I’m not going to bed at quarter to nine at night. We’re like a pair of old people. That’s our problem around here. We’re dead before we’re dead.”

He grinned. “I’m still going to bed—to read.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m going to Greece. Gonna get myself a cute Greek boyfriend…”

Not waiting for me to finish, the man crowed (in his usual supportive way), “Go for it!”

“…a cute little boy about twelve years old, who loves animals!” I finished.

We both chuckled over our big fat Greek adventure, then he left the room. I watched him go on ahead. I do that often these days.

The little boat of our joint lives has plied a long river. Over our thirty-three year marriage, we’ve drifted in calm waters, endured a few storms, encountered some white water, and faced plenty of pirates. Our faces both show it.

But we’re still pulling together. We promised, and God has helped us.

“Many waters cannot quench love, and the floods cannot drown it,” King Solomon said. In spite of my silly Greek fantasy, I’d like to add, “and age cannot stop it.”

We’re in this boat till God leads it to the dock—we make that choice daily.

Committed love. It’s better than chocolate. Aim for that.

When presented with what seems indisputable, first-hand evidence, I have a remarkable ability to leap to wrong conclusions.

Decades ago, en route home from our honeymoon, the Preacher and I stopped overnight at my parents’ home. Another pair of visitors—only a few years further into their marriage—camped on an air mattress in the next room.

After everyone had gone to bed, to our dismay (okay…and amusement), a good deal of laughter, heavy breathing, and embarrassing comments migrated to us through the dividing wall.

The following morning, feeling it my sacred duty to advise more discretion, I took the wife aside. “Uh… we had a hard time getting to sleep last night.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Well….have you noticed how thin the walls are in this house?”

“No,” she answered, all innocence. “Why should I?”

“Well…we heard some….uh….sort of… (cough, cough—this was an entirely different era, remember) commotion after you went to bed.”

“Really?” She seemed puzzled.

“What commotion?”

“Well…comments, for one thing.”

“What comments?”

I told her, my face burning. To my surprise, she hooted in laughter—then explained the truth.

A quarter-century ago, air mattresses often had several separate chambers—one for the pillow, one for the mattress. Most people blew them up on lung power alone. It seems that when she and her husband had laid themselves down to sleep, their mattress had proven far too soft. They decided to change that—without getting up to turn on the light.

Seems they’d had big trouble finding both air-valves in the dark, and even bigger trouble getting the correct amount of air into them. It took forever to get it right, she said. When her husband had finally found the correct valve for the pillow, he’d blown in too much air—gotten the thing hard as rock.

The process set them gasping with giddiness. They must have been louder than they realized, she said. They never intended us to hear, she said—never suspected what we may imagine in our freshly married state.

As she explained what had really gone on on the other side of the wall, truth developed a whole new set of pictures in my head. Same captions, but accurate images.

I wish I could say that was the last time I leapt to delusions. Truth skews far too easily. The problem escalates when we report our assumptions to others—without searching out the full story.

Gossip. Shabby journalism. “Bearing false witness,” according to God. Gossip injures, whether delivered by mouth or media.

Even genuine incidents, when wrapped in the flimsy yellow rags of assumption and reported as truth, can inflict horrible, irrevocable damage. If you’ve ever been a victim, your wounds are likely still oozing.

Of all people, those who profess to be friends of Christ—Truth personified—should have a passion for seeking, and speaking, truth.

Lord, forgive us our assumptions, as we forgive those who assume against us.

While riding in our daughter’s family van, I asked our four-year-old grandson about the auction he and his dad had attended earlier.

“Could you understand the auctioneer, Benjamin?” I said.

He chuckled. “He talks very fast!”

“Do you know your Daddy can talk like that too?” Our son-in-law learned the art of auctioneering, but took up preaching instead.

The Bean’s mouth dropped. “What?” he said. Then, “Daddy, talk like a auc-shu-eer!”

Kendall grinned. “Give me something to auction off.”

In the front passenger seat, his mother looked out the window at the pinking sky. At the transparent, almost-full moon emerging through the evening haze. “Hey, how about the moon?”

“Do the moon, Daddy,” Benjamin crowed.

Kendall began, “Ihaveamoon,onefullmoon,onewholemoon, whowantsthemoon?Let’sstartthebiddingat…”

“One dollar,” Amanda hollered from up front.

“Benjamin,” I whispered. “Say one ten.”

“One ten,” he yelled, eyes bright.

“One thirty…One fifty….” The bids climbed fast. All aboard pitched in, even the tiniest bean. Benjamin obediently shouted out the numbers I whispered in his ear.

Finally, “One seventy-five—who’ll give me one hundred and seventy-five dollars for the moon?” the auctioneer cried, laughing at our silliness. “Going once, going twice, going…”

“Say ‘two hundred’ Benjamin!’” I prompted.

“Two hundred!” But he sounded uncertain.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have two hundred. Two twenty-five, two twenty-five, who’ll give me two twenty-five….. ?

“Too steep for me,” said his mother, his primary contender.

“Going once, going twice, going, going, and GONE. Sold for two hundred to the little guy in the back seat.” Kendall thumped the steering wheel.

“WOW, Benjamin!” I said. “You just bought the moon for two hundred dollars!”

The Bean, sober-faced now, looked out the window, where shone the paper-white moon, the cow-jumped-over-it moon, the smiling moon, the “I-see-the-moon-and-the-moon-sees-me” moon. And pondered.

Then he turned and looked into my eyes. His own deep-blues appeared troubled. Every word weighted with a curious sense of awful responsibility, he said, “Why did I?”

The adults roared. He joined in, and we laughed some more…Benjamin owns the moon, and he doesn’t have a clue why. Neither do we, but it’s his, sure as shootin’. He put in the winning bid.

I’ve “bought the moon” more than once in my life. Never has that been more true than in the last two and a half years, since Neurological West Nile disabled the Preacher and, to a large extent, our roles reversed.

Our faith in God is strong, but the road is unfamiliar. Sometimes I’ve listened to others, wrongly. Leapt before looking. Accepted commitments too big for me, challenges that frightened me to death.

The moon sits uncomfortably in one’s pocket.

But God keeps reminding me that he understands my confusion and uncertainties, and walks alongside. That he still owns the moon, and I don’t need to take care of it.

Got a confusing road? Lost a lifestyle? Bought the moon on the good advice of others? Talk to God. Give back the moon. Take his hand and keep walking. He’ll take care of you both.

 On January 12^th, Haiti quaked. Its foundations rattled, cracked and crumbled. So did its people. What followed the horrific physical devastation was even worse: a tsunami of loss and grief that roared into the lives and homes of Haitians and compassionate people worldwide.

Did it crash through your walls too? Did the wails of horror and pain shred the routine of your days? Did they drive you to pray? To help? To question why?

I have friends who have visited Haiti. “It’s a horribly dark country,” they told me after their first trip. “A country starved for the love of Christ.” They returned several times to bring aid. Hands, not to hold, but to work. God’s love with skin on.

Pat Robertson, a controversial evangelical leader in the US, leapt to blame the quake on God. According to Mr. Robertson, God caused the quake, to punish Haiti for “embracing voodooism.”  

Indeed…God hates evil. The Old Testament cites many instances of God’s judgment on unrighteous people, cities, and nations. Even the New Testament records incidents of God showing his displeasure through sudden catastrophe.

But if Robertson is right, I can think of a few spots closer to home that should have gotten all shook up first.

Jesus said, “the rain falls on people both righteous and unrighteous.” And when asked if a blind beggar’s lack of vision had been caused by his or his parents’ sin, he answered, “Neither. This happened so the work of God might be displayed in his life.”

I’d rather not waste my time playing “Pin the Blame on God.” I believe God has embraced Haiti in her hurt, bringing hope and compassion.

I’ve heard several journalists report, amazed, that they’ve met grateful, joyful people; that they’ve seen people who have lost it all—with no chance of recovery—helping others.

In an interview with the CBC Radio a week after the quake, Rebecca Solnit, author of “A Paradise Built in Hell—Communities That Arise from Disaster,” said, “In times of crises, people often find what’s missing in everyday life, a purpose, a meaning. A self-transcendent kind of joy…”

Joy? Body parts in the street?  Not knowing where your loved ones are? Or worse knowing they’ve died in the most horrible circumstances? Loss on every hand? No hope of normal—ever again?

“Disasters are not a solution to everyday life,” Solnit continued. “But they’re a window into who we CAN be.”

I recently heard about a post-WW11 survey done in Britain. The British people reported that they were never happier than during the years of the Blitzkrieg. Unexpected things arise in the hearts of people under siege.

Especially faith.

The Preacher and I observed that often during his months at Wascana Rehab Centre. The buoyant faith of critically disabled people drove me often to pray, “Lord, forgive my complaining.”

Watch Haiti. Help if you can. Jesus weeps there. God works for good there: darkness, his favourite canvas, births the strongest faith and reveals the brightest, most glorious light.

***

Many Christian organizations have leapt to Haiti’s aid. If your own church has no avenue to give, you can donate online at the following websites:

World Vision: www.worldvision.ca 

Billy Graham Rapid Response Team/Samaritan’s Purse: www.billygraham.org

Salvation Army: www.salvationarmy.org

The friends who sold us our house warned us about its unfinished basement.

“It’s bone dry down there—no water for ages. But the floor has white powder. The stuff just keeps coming up.”

Indeed. The first time I visited the basement, I almost scampered back up its painted grey stairs.

The cement block walls looked solid. “Nice high ceilings,” said a friend who’d come along to inspect, knocking on a stretch of galvanized furnace ducting. But the floor looked like it had a bad case of dandruff.

I dislike basements. Most of those we’ve lived above have been gloomy and damp. Not so Hope House. It seems dry as crackers, and on the morning side several windows invite light. Not a bad basement at all.

Except for the powder.

It’s alkali, we’ve found out.  Harmless to people, but determined. It seeps upward, flaking  the floor’s multiple coats of grey paint and its top layers of concrete. White piles cover the entire basement, and compress under even a small foot.

Walking in the basement is a little like treading on white sugar.

“You could sweep up a dustpan full a day,” the warning included.

I could, if I were so inclined. I’m not. I am, though, inclined to explore the reasons, and a solution, for the alkali. The downstairs could house several extra rooms. With a growing crop of grandbeans, and the Preacher’s library waiting elsewhere for a home, we could use the space.

In the era in which our house was built, contractors poured concrete foundations directly over compacted dirt. Like a petrified sponge, concrete remains porous. Moisture in the soil makes its way through and seeps out the other side. If there’s not much, it dissipates. Minerals in the water don’t evaporate though—they simple pile up on the surface.

The soil around here is highly alkali, I’ve learned. Like manna, more powder shows up daily.

Pour a new floor, with improved concrete, someone recommended. “Yeah, Mom, rent a jackhammer and rip out the old floor,” our daughter said. “Do you know how many guys would love the opportunity to make big noise and an even bigger mess?”

Others have suggested sandblasting off the paint and sealing the floor’s surface (more big mess, more big noise). Or hanging the freezer and washer and dryer from the rafters, and pouring on a new layer of concrete. Or simply installing a slightly elevated good sub-floor.

We’ll get it fixed, somehow. (More suggestions are welcome!) But that floor reminds me of some people I know. In spite of seemingly smooth lives, something nasty works its way up to the surface regularly. Bitter memories, often. Unforgiveness. They’re difficult to walk alongside. Tricky to live with. Useful for little but storing and reviewing personal angsts.

Just when I contemplated hauling out my verbal jackhammer and using it on someone like that this week, God reminded me to apply gentleness and pray for wisdom. Like houses, people have unique needs, and he’s the definitive expert in the foundations of the human soul—not me.

That’s why his name is Wonderful Counsellor.

Think I’ll ask him about the dandruff in the basement.

I almost always wear green—spring green. Ask anyone who knows me. But I decided to wear something different to church one day. Black pants, a short-sleeved black shirt, and a hand-crocheted gold tunic—lacy, and lightly sequined.

 I’d bought the top for my daughter at our favourite thrift store.  “Hey, Amanda, I found you a really neat top,” I said, when I saw her next. “Look at this. Value Village, fifteen bucks.”

 She watched me take it from the bag. “Hmmmm, nice! But Mom, that’s far more your style. I think you should keep it.”

 She was right—I did like the top. It had pizzazz. A bit of bling—something I could use. At her insistence, I tucked it away, but wondered when I’d wear it.

 I knew the answer on the Sunday I didn’t feel like wearing green, when my hand fell on its nubby gold folds in my dresser drawer.

 “Nice,” the Preacher offered. I thought so myself.

 When we arrived at church, our grandbeans ran to meet us. Twenty-two month old Dinah Jane burrowed into my hug, threading her tiny fingers through the lacey openings in my top. “Pitty,” she said.

 But then the two eldest offered their opinions, and everything went downhill from there.

 “Nana.” Three-year-old Tabatha inspected me with judicial eye, “Nana, you have holes in your shirt.”

 Benjamin, four, touched the gold threads with something akin to awe, but said, “Nana, you have on two shirts. Why did you put on that shirt with holes?”

 I tried to keep back my smiles at their innocent fashion appraisal. “Well….the black one is for function, and the gold one is…just for pretty,” I said.

 “Pitty,” said Dinah Jane, petting my arm.

 “Gold is not my favourite color,” Benjamin decided, finally. “It should be brown. And there are too many holes. They both should be for function.”

 “Pitty!” Dinah Jane repeated, still entranced.

 Tabatha and Benjamin worried about my gold top during church. They worried about it walking home. They even worried about it at my house, all afternoon. Why did I buy it? Where did I buy it? Who made it? Why did it have sequins on it? And WHY did it have SO MANY holes—were they there when I bought it?

 On their way out my door to go back home, one of the beans, in decisive voice, delivered a final judgment on my gold tunic. “Nana, that shirt has too many holes. You should fix it.”

 My beautiful top. Just my tiniest grandbean noticed how pretty it was. Her older siblings focused instead on its lack.

 I’m guilty of that too, I’ve realized since. Using threads of every hue, God weaves exquisite patterns into my days. Instead of admiring them, I focus on the holes, unwilling to believe he can use them to make the design of my life even more beautiful.

 Train us all, Lord, to trust your pattern…especially when all we see is holes.

We shared a precious friendship with Herb and Iona till we moved from rural Ontario almost two decades ago.

Last summer the Preacher and I travelled back for a speaking engagement. A car pulled up to the church and a gray-haired woman emerged from the driver’s side. She went round to the passenger door, opened it, and helped an elderly man climb out.

Iona hadn’t changed much, but could this tentative, confused fellow be the strapping farmer we’d known? “Iona….Herb…” We fished for words. Then Herb smiled and for a moment we saw our old friend.

A few days later Iona served us lunch at home. Simple fare, but gourmet conversation, with laughter for dessert.

“Remember the Christmas we left Chalmer with you?” the Preacher asked. They’d often cared for our children and/or pets in our absence.

Our irascible red cocker ruined their Christmas meal that year. Someone opened the outside door during dinner, and the dog decided to go AWOL. Herb and their son left the table to fetch him—a futile effort. Chalmer stayed in sight, but remained just far enough ahead to avoid capture.

The not-so-merry chase lasted hours. “Larry, the only way we’re gonna catch that rascal is with a 22.” Herb said, finally. He stalked back home, ate warmed-over Christmas dinner, and went to bed frustrated.

In the middle of the night Iona heard Chalmer whimpering outside. “You don’t deserve to come in,” she’d said—and let him in anyway.

Herb smiled at our memories, covering his confusion well.

He and Iona had moved into a condo in town, but Herb had never moved in his heart. The barns were empty now, the old place sold to strangers. But like Chalmer, Herb longed to flee his new surroundings and return home.

“I’ve applied for a nursing home spot,” Iona said later, regret filling her voice. The care-giving had become too difficult.

Before we left, I crouched down in front of our old friend, took his hand, looked up into his eyes and said, “Herb, we want to thank you for your kindnesses to us when we lived around here. You loved our kids. You put up with our pets. Thank you for reflecting Jesus so well to our family. We haven’t forgotten.”

 Herb looked down at me. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he understood the punch line of a joke I’d missed. 

“Well,” he said slowly. “We did what we could.”

A nursing home spot opened up shortly after our visit, nice and close. Just a few weeks later, Herb escaped. Jesus left the door open and his spirit got up and flew home.

I’m so glad I said the important things.

If you make any resolutions in 2010, make that one. Say the important things to people around you: I’m so glad God put you in my life…That kindness meant the world to me… Do you know how much God loves you? Me too!

You never know when they’ll just fly home.