Monthly Archives: July 2014

Dave Gabriel, RIP

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Americans are philanthropic.  We’re blessed to live in the best country in the world and we give back. Houstonians even more so. I make a lot of negative comments about Houston.  Sure, it’s ugly and hot, but it is a kick ass place to earn a living. The American Dream is alive and well here and we know it. So, Houstonians give back, and boy do we. We throw charity events, we hold auctions, we sit on boards, we give til it hurts.  We do remarkable things.

But sometimes it’s just not enough.  We can’t fix all the world’s woes.  But God, how we try.  I just found out our latest little HeartGift patient did not survive. HeartGift was founded in Austin.  It has operations in six cities.  We have done over 190 successful life saving open heart surgeries.  We have a lot to be proud of. These little human beings are our legacies.  They will go back to their communities and live until adulthood and hopefully they will share their stories.  Stories of how complete strangers paid for them to travel thousands of miles to this new world. How caring communities took them in.  Gave them food when they were hungry, clothed them when they were naked.  How these strangers arranged and paid for surgeries that are not even pipe dreams in their native countries.

Despite all of our best efforts and the finest medical care in the world, we lost Dave this week.  HeartGift is not a Christian based organization, but I can guarantee that we are down on our knees praying to God for comfort. I can also tell you something else.  Dave’s mother, Mary Grace, is a hero.  So are all the mothers.  She took a chance.  She gave her little boy’s life over to strangers in an effort to save him.  She did all she could. 


YoYo

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YoYo was an orange tabby.  I’m partial to tabbies.  Barn cats in particular.  Indoor cats and purebreds are for sissies.  But having an outdoor cat does not come without its risks.  For one thing, outdoor cats don’t live as long. They get in fights, they get run over, and I guess some of them even run away. Or, if you’re YoYo, you just find out who in the neighborhood is offering canned food and you switch allegiances, just like that…  Ingrate.

I’m a dog and a cat person, which is rare.  One of the reasons this works is because I like cats who think and act like dogs. YoYo acted like a dog.  Have you seen the video of that cat that saved the little boy from the dog attack? Now that’s a cat I could like.

Where do I start with YoYo?  First of all, he was not my first choice.  I had picked out his litter mate when the kittens were not quite walking.  This one little guy would take a few baby steps with his front legs, stretching out his torso until he couldn’t go any further.  Then the back legs would sort of spring forward to catch up. I named him Slinky after the funny way he tried to walk.  Several weeks later when I went to pick him up and saw all the kittens playing together, I just could not bear for him to be an only cat.  I grabbed a litter mate and keeping with the toy motif, named him YoYo.

YoYo and Slinky went in and out our little pet door in the kitchen.  Once we got our Rottweiler, he did too until he got too big.  Then he would just put his head through and YoYo would torment him.  

One Sunday night when I got home from a girls weekend in Dallas, Slinky was missing.  I should know better than to go away for the weekend.  Bad things happen to our pets when I leave town. Slinky just never showed up.  I gave it a few days, and thinking that YoYo was lonely, I got  a gray tabby from the pound.  He was already named Wigglesworth. That was too much of a mouthful so we just called him “Willie”. It wasn’t long before he too disappeared and we began to question YoYo’s involvement.  About this time we moved to a new house and low and behold, a scrawny, mangy gray tabby came with the place.  Lacking any imagination at all, we named him Willie II.  Willie was a street cat and had balls, or so we thought.  Willie was on his home turf and YoYo was no match for him.  Only, it turns out he was a she.  Oh yea, it gets better…..




Echols Scholar

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When I was accepted to the University of Virginia, I was invited to interview for an Echols Scholarship.  This is not something I have talked much about, because, quite frankly, it did not go all that well.

In order to explain how well it did not go, I have to go back. Way back. Back to ninth grade.  I was a junior cheerleader and was doing whatever junior cheerleaders do at senior basketball games.  The next day some guy called me on the phone and said that he had seen me at the game the night before.  Well of course he had, I was a cheerleader. We probably did some sort of routine during one of the time outs.  

I had never heard of this guy. He was a senior. It was easy enough to check him out. My brother was in his class.  Any normal parents would not have let their freshman daughter go out with a senior, but as we have already established, I did not have normal parents.

I could change the name to protect the innocent, but I won’t.  His name is just too good to change.  Kip.  That was his real name, I kid you not.  Kip.  He was cute. Short, but cute.  He was the vice president of the student council and all around BMOC in a very nerdy/cool sort of way.

Kip was my first real love.  We dated most of my freshman year until April of my sophomore year and then he dumped me for some college girl.  He broke my heart.  

Because Kip went to UVA and I had visited him at school, UVA was always one of my college choices. When I got invited to interview for the Echols Scholarship, I called to let him know what was going on. He was excited for me and offered to entertain me the night before the interview. We had a fun time, getting reacquainted and hanging out with his friends.

The next day I had a full schedule with campus tours, meetings and finally an interview with the selection committee. I was so out of my league. To say I was unprepared was an understatement. I was totally unprepared. And I was ambushed.

I walked into the office and there was a small group of men, maybe three or four, five at the most.  Very sober. Very serious. Very frightening to a young 18 year old girl. And there in their midst was Kip, that son of a bitch.  He could have at least given me a heads up.    

What happened next was a blur.  All except for one question.  The question that caused me to lose the scholarship.  Who’s to say if I would have answered the same had Kip not been sitting three feet from me.  It doesn’t matter.  I blew it.  

You see, Kip was not the only BMOC.  I was something of one myself.  They asked me what I had learned from all my various leadership roles and activities and I said, “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”  

And that was the end of that. 

I am still holding a grudge.  I hope he’s fat and bald.



  

Just Passing Through

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It came to me this morning. The new blog title. I was outside on the deck reading Jesus Calling and saying my prayers.  I looked around and noticed all the empty spaces that were filled with flowers last year.  Gabriel planted a lot of flowers before we got here.  But last year I went crazy. I added to what the gardeners had beautifully prepared for our arrival. I must have gone to Grigg’s Nursery a half dozen times. There were pots of flowers in every nook and cranny. 

We’re going to be here another two months. There’s still plenty of time to plant some more flowers. But I’m just not interested. What Gabriel planted is good enough.  It’d be a little extravagant, don’t you think? Planting and watering all of those flowers that will be enjoyed for such a short period of time.  After all, I don’t live here year round. I’m just spending the summer, just passing through.  

Then the tears started.  They start so easily.  Last night Rick and I went to see The Chef.  No, I didn’t cry during that movie.  It’s pretty funny, actually.  But I did cry during two of the trailers.  Four minute clips and I was boohooing. Anything can make me cry these days, but it’s usually something that reminds me that I’m on the clock. I was crying out there on the deck, reading my Bible study and looking at the flowers that weren’t there, because I realized that it’s all for a season.  It doesn’t last.

Since I’ve been diagnosed, one of the stupidest things anyone has said to me, I suppose in an attempt to cheer me up, is that everybody is going to die. That’s some crazy shit, huh?  People are so uncomfortable around terminally ill people.  Especially people who look healthy. It makes them nervous. They say crazy things. They can’t help it. It’s okay. 

But what I think my friend was trying to say is that we’re all terminal.  We’re all just passing through this life on our way to our heavenly home.  Those of us with bad diseases just happen to be a little more aware of it. I don’t know how long I  have.  I don’t know if I’ll get a new heart or if this one will last years.  I don’t know how long I’ll continue to feel good.  I don’t know anything.

So what do I do with the not knowing?  What do I do while I wait for the unknown to become known?  The way I see it, I have two options.

Like Andy said in the Shawshank Redemption, you either “get busy living or get busy dying”. I choose living. I will enjoy God’s creation and the many wonders of being alive for as long as I can. Granted, some days I’ll have more energy than other days. But I won’t compare my todays with my yesterdays.   I will use whatever energy I have, lots or little, to explore the loveliness that life has to offer.  I will experience the highs and the lows. And there will be lows. I will share people’s joys and their pain and I will continue to cry.  I will cry because I’m scared and I’ll cry because I don’t want it to end.

But it does end.  For all of us. Some day. We just don’t know when.  It’s not forever.  It never was. We’re all just passing through.