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Monday, March 28, 2011

Pigs, a wolf, and some aliens

The majority of my thoughts have been centered on the plays Cindy and I are directing. There is so much to keep track of, the costumes, the sets, the props, the actors. Because at this age, the actors certainly need someone keeping track of them. I mixed up green face paint for the aliens tonight and smeared it all over my hand to make sure it didn't cause any kind of reaction. They all looked nice and green by the time Cindy smeared it with make-up sponges on their faces. I think they will do a good job but regardless I am done after Thursday-Woo Hoo. Cindy and I have not even begun to discuss whether we will do this again next year. I certainly know more now than I did when we started. I don't think I am jinxing myself by saying I can't imagine a more stressful time to try to put on a show than what we have been through the last couple of months. Things continue to feel rough.

Sharon's dog is having major complications from his neutering. This is Weston, the golden retriever Mom gave her for her birthday after her dog Cotton was run over while they were at the Mayo clinic this summer. In addition to being a very loved pet, he is a link to Mom. I have a churning in the pit of  my stomach that won't seem to go away. I can't imagine how horrible it would be if he doesn't make it. There is no reason for him to die, at worst he has an infection and yet until he is better it is going to weigh on me. I don't want it for me and I really don't want it for Sharon's family. It's like because death has been so present lately, the shadow of it falls on everything bleaching out bright colors. It has been years since I yelled out, "It's not fair," but I'm getting close to that now. It does seem that we could have some good months at least to grieve in without anybody human or beast having more than a serious cold. It feels like too much.

I got a Debbie Macomber book off the bargain rack at Barnes and Noble. It is comprised of true stories of generosity. The first chapter or so that I have read talk about the importance of being grateful. She shares how we are supposed to thank God for the trials in our lives as well as the positive things. She shared the story about the women in the concentration camp that had smuggled in a Bible and who were horribly infested with fleas. The Bible was a source of inspiration and hope for them. In it, it says to bear all things with a grateful heart (I'm paraphrasing here). At her sister's urging they thanked God for the fleas. They discovered later that the only reason their Bible wasn't confiscated was because of the fleas.

I can't thank God for my parents' deaths and don't think I will ever get to that point no matter how I spiritually mature. The closest I can come is to thank Him for the things he can teach me through it and to thank Him for the strength to bear it. I am grateful for my family, for faithful old and new friends, for the drama class that has stretched me, for my husband and my children's good health, for His continued presence that sometimes I can feel and sometimes I can't, and for the surety that God is there even when I can't feel him at all.

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