Simon was an unforgettable member of our family for a year.  A black lab and boxer mixed dog who came from the animal shelter.  I’m still not sure whether Maddie picked him or if he picked her.  I just know that the way he looked in her eyes and the way she looked at him was something special.  He was a rough and tumble dog with everyone else but with Maddie he was more gentle than I have ever seen a dog.  He would eat popcorn out of her fingers never letting his teeth touch her.  He was protected her.  In the house or outside, his place was directly in front of her wheelchair.

                Simon also was attention seeking.  He truly thought he was the center of the universe!  When someone sat, it must be to watch or pet him.  He would sit expectantly at the person’s feet , looking to catch the person’s eye.  If that failed, he scooted closer and laid his head across the thigh looking up with the most pitiful eyes.  Rarely did anyone fail to fall victim to those bleating brown eyes.  On the occasions when the person still failed to provide the attention Simon craved, he would turn his head and nip the inner thigh resulting instant attention!  He did not seem to mind that it was negative attention, it was attention.

                One rainy Indiana afternoon, we were gathered in the family room.  Maddie recovering from yet another infection was snuggled in her pajamas and blankets on daybed.  From her favorite spot she could watch anything happening in the family room, dining room, or out the window.  A movie was playing on the TV and I was camped at the dining room table trying to finish some work on the laptop.  Simon was bursting with puppy energy and enthusiasm.  He really needed to go outside and run around for a while but outside this day was a soggy, rainy mess.

             I played a few rounds of Simon’s version of go fetch.  I threw the tennis ball from the dining room through the kitchen into the living room.  Simon enthusiastically charged after the ball returning with it firmly clinched in his teeth his tail wagging his body in anticipation.  As soon as I reach for the ball, Simon took off fully expecting me to chase him.  After chasing him for a short time, I returned to my chair.  Simon ran back and dropped the ball at my feet.  I threw the ball through the kitchen again and the game was repeated.  Occasionally during the game, Simon would actually let me grab the slobber soaked ball while he held it in his mouth for a round of tug-a-war with the ball.  Long before Simon was ready to stop, I tried to send him away so I could get back to my work on the computer.

          Simon wanted to play.  He stood beside my chair looking so pitifully at me with his big brown eyes.  I sent him away.   He came back with his wet tennis ball dropping it at my feet so it landed with a thud and a short bounce.  I sent him away.  He came back with his three pronged rubber UIO (unidentified object).  I sent him away.  He returned and dropped his doll at my feet.  I sent him away.  Next he added his tug-of-war rope to the pile at my feet.  I sent him away.

          With all Simon’s toys in a pile at my feet and Simon lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, I was finally able to concentrate on the project on the computer screen.  I was deep in thought when I felt Simon’s head in my lap.  He had climbed under the table positioning himself in and on the pile of toys at my feet.  He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, begging for me to play.  I sent him away.  He climbed out from under the table standing squarely a foot away from my chair and barked in protest.

         In growing frustration, I commanded, “Go lay down!”   

       In my mind that meant that he would go to his bed under the window in the family room and lay down.  He knew the command well.  Normally he would follow the command slowly with no tail wagging.  But this time Simon just looked at me.  I looked back.  “Go lay down!” I repeated. 

         Simon continued to stare at me.  And I stared right back.  We were in the midst of a standoff.  I was annoyed!  I issued the command one more time, my voice louder and angry.  Simon just looked at me like a defiant teenager.  And that sent me over the edge!  How dare this dog refuse to follow my command!  One way or another, his was going to “go lay down.”

         I stood up still trying to stare the dog down.  He didn’t move a muscle.  Fine!  Without really thinking about what I was doing, I put one arm in front of his front legs and on arm behind his back legs.  I picked up all 45 pounds of Simon and carried him to his bed.  “I said, GO LAY DOWN!” I informed the wayward dog as I placed him firmly in the middle of the bed.

        Suddenly I heard a noise from behind me.  Maddie was choking.  I ran to Maddie but Simon beat me to her.  I had never heard her make a noise like that.  Her airway must be blocked.  I looked closely trying to see if any air was making its way to her lungs.  I reached to pick her up and then stopped.  She was not choking.  The noise she was making had changed.  It wasn’t coming from her throat.  It looked like it was coming from her belly.  No, she was not choking.  She was laughing!  Truly laughing!!

I stood there in shock for a moment.  I realized from her place on the daybed, she had a front row seat to watch the standoff between her mom and her dog.  Maddie’s noise changed from a belly laugh to the giggles of an eight year old girl.  I stared laughing, too.  And tears ran down my face.  For the first time I heard my daughter laugh!  It was a gift!  A holy gift!

  

  

 
 
        I still miss the snowman in the freezer.  He lived there nearly one whole winter.  Every time I open the door his button eyes would be there waiting.  It has been several years now since the winter the snowman lived in our freezer but his image and the lesson he taught me remain.

             It was the winter Maddie was six.  The first snow fall came silently during the night leaving a blanket of wet white wonder all around.  It brought fond childhood memories of snowmen, sledding, and snow forts and snow ball fights.  I remembered the magic ice cream my mom would make mixing milk and sugar with a bowl of fluffy white snow. 

                I stood by the window longing to play in the snow.  I imagined taking Maddie out to the playground nature had made during the night.  But it was impossible.  There is no way I could keep her warm.  Dressed in long underwear, a sweat suite, two pairs of socks, and a hat and covered with blankets, she struggled to keep her body temperature above 95 degrees inside where it was warm.  The furnace continually set at 72 degrees.  A deep suddenness washed over me.  It was for Maddie.  It was for me.  I turned away from the window and began the morning routine.

                Once Maddie was up, her medications given, breathing treatment done, teeth brushed, body washed and dressed, the day stretched before me.  There would be no outings and likely no visitors.  It was going to be one long quiet day!  We could read books, watch educational TV, play with Maddie’s switch toys, and blow bubbles.  All of it seemed so boring compared to the snow outside the window.

                I several times through the morning found myself at the window again.  Maybe if I ran an extension cord from the apartment to the little front lawn, I could put Maddie in her wagon with the heating pad and bundle her completely she could go out for a few minutes.  But how safe was running an extension cord through the wet snow?  I could not take a chance of giving her an electrical shock.  Besides that by the time I had her bundled for warmth, she would not get to touch or feel the snow.  How fun would that be?

        Shortly before lunch a thought struck me.  Maybe Maddie couldn’t go out to play in the snow but what was stopping me from bringing the snow into her?   We could build a snowman inside!   I found her mittens and scarf.  Buttons for eyes and mouth, a little carrot nose, a scrap of fabric for a scarf, and one of Maddie’s doll hats, perfect for our creation.  I situated Maddie’s tray on her wheelchair and got her mittens on.  All the while I babble to Maddie about playing in the snow and building a snowman.  Outside I filled a large bowl with snow.

         On a small cookie sheet, we began making our first snow ball.  At first Maddie wasn’t wild about touching the snow.  But as the first snowball took shape, she started getting into it.  She didn’t resist me helping her to pat the wet snow so that it went from fluffy wet stuff into a firm slick mass.   We had to work fast because inside the snow was melting fast.  The first ball was done and then the second.  I made another trip outside for more snow.  The third ball for the head came together quickly.

         I put the eyes and mouth in place because Maddie’s mitten fingers were not able to help.  But Maddie held the carrot nose until it was firmly in place.  We put the scarf and hat in place.  We were finished.  “Look Maddie!  We built a snowman!” I exclaimed like a child myself.

         Maddie’s eyes danced as she stared at the snowman.  She was smiling big!  The miniature snowman stood less than a foot high and he was melting fast.  I wasn’t ready to let him go and Maddie didn’t look like she was either.  So I put him in the freezer.  There between the packages of frozen peas, broccoli, and hot dogs, he lived the winter.  Every so often I would bring him out for Maddie to see.  

         I learned an important lesson that day.  Maddie is not so limited by her physical body as she is by my difficulty seeing around her disability.  I am the one who is limiting her by saying she can’t do this or that.  Instead I can ask the question, how can I make it possible for her to do whatever it is she wants to do? 

                Every time I opened the freezer that winter, there was Maddie’s snowman smiling at me.  He became a symbol of hope, possibility, and freedom.  Every once in a while Maddie will want to do something, like ride an elephant, and the word impossible flashes in my mind.  Then the vision of that little snowman comes to mind.  And impossible becomes possible.  And, yes, Maddie has ridden an elephant but that is a story for another day!   

 
 
God said it. Moses said it. The angels said it.  Jesus said it more than once. 

“Don’t be afraid.”

Who am I to question it?  At the same time, I always thought that wasn’t the most helpful thing to say.  Especially since it was generally said to people who had every reason to be shaking in their sandals, running for safety, or wanting an emergency consultation with the local ophthalmologist or priestly healer.  Think about it for a minute.  If you saw…I mean really saw an angel or a dead man walking, wouldn’t you be a bit afraid.  Telling you not to be afraid would be like telling you not to breath.

            No one has ever had to tell me to be afraid.  It seems like I have always known how to be afraid.  When I was seven, my world was turned to chaos.  My dad was going to die.  I knew it.  No, he hadn’t had bad news from the doctor.  He wasn’t in an accident.  He...please remember I was seven …He got gray hair.  I just knew that only really old people got gray hair and then they died.  The fear was more than I knew how to handle.  The grief was real.  I cried and cried.

            My sister tried to help.  In the logic of the first born, she explained that dad was not going to die for a long, long time.  In fact he was not likely to die until long after she had gone to college.  It would have been a good plan if I had not already been a bit over the edge and a bit imaginative.  The fear grew.  The tears came harder and faster.  Not only was my dad going to die, but my sister was going to leave me, too.  My world was falling apart.

        Years have passed.  My sister has been to college and to graduate school.  My dad passed away a couple of years ago.  And I carefully use a magic bottle to keep gray hair off my head.  I survived it all.  But once in a while I am consumed by the total fear I felt as a seven year old.

            A while back, Maddie had a significant surgery.  Collapsed lungs extended the predicted 5 to 7 days in the hospital.  For the first time since Maddie came to me she was placed in the intensive care unit.  Just as she began to recover from that, she started bleeding.  No one was sure where the blood was coming from and the options for finding out were not advisable given her situation. 

            I wasn’t exactly worry free sending Maddie off for surgery in the first place.  By the time blood started coming out her g-button I was on the edge of the terror remembered from childhood.  Maddie’s pediatrician, my sister, and my aunt offered comfort and encouragement via the telephone.  I tried hard to appear calm but that was like trying hide a gorilla in street clothes.  I had to have been driving the ICU staff crazy.

            Late one evening, I went to the resident over seeing the care in ICU for the night with yet more of my questions.  He answered those questions and looked me in the eye.  He went on to say, “I know you are afraid but Maddie and I need for you not to be so scared.  I am not scared for Maddie right now.  I am afraid for another child tonight but not Maddie.  I’ll make you a deal.  I will tell when I get scared and then you can be scared.”

            Can you hear the echoes?  “Do not be afraid.”  It was and is amazing to me.  As soon as he said it I could feel physically feel the fear turn to peace.  I slept through the night and so did Maddie.

 
 
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